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LOVELyS LIBRARY -CATALOGUE. 



10. 

11. 

12. 
13. 
U. 
15. 
16. 
17. 
18. 

19. 

20. 
21. 
22. 
28. 
24. 
25. 
26. 
27. 
28. 
29. 
SO. 
31. 
82. 

S3. 
84. 
S5. 

S8. 
S7. 
88. 
S9. 
40. 

4t. 
43. 
43. 
44. 
45. 

46. 
47. 

48. 
49. 



Hyperion, by H. W. LoTijrfellow. .20 
Outre-Mer, by H. W. LoiIgfeiiow.SiO 

The Happy Boy, by BjOmsou 10 

Arne, by BjOrtison 10 

Frankcniteic, by Mrs. Shelley... 10 
The Last of the Mohicans ...... .^0 

Clytie, by Joseph Hatton,. ....ilO 

The Moouetone, by C ollirse/P't 1. 10 
The Moonstone, by Collin« P'tll.io 
Oliver T^xM, by Charles Dickens. 20 
The Coming Race, by Lytton. . . . 10 

Leila, by Lord Lytton , . 10 

The Three Spaniards, by Walker. 20 
ThcTiicks of the GreeksUiiveiied.20 
L'Abbe Constantin, by Balevy..20 
Freckles, by K. F. Redcliff . . ..20 
The Dark Collf en, by Harriett Jay.20 
Tht^y Were Married I by Walter 

Besant and J ames Rice. 10 

Seekers af rer God, by Farrar. .... .20 

The Spanish Knn. byDeQ.uincey.lO 

The Green Mountain Boys 20 

Fleurette, by Eugene Scri'oe. ... ,20 
Becund Thouorht?, i V Bro-aghton.20 
The New Magdalen, 'y Uollin8..20 
Divorce, by Mai £r?ret Joe. . , „. . .20 
Life of Washington, by Henley. .'oO 
Social Etiquette, b.v Mrs. Savilie.15 
Single Heart and Double Face., 10 
Irene, by Carl Detlef , „,..,...... .20 

Vice Versa, by P. Anetey 20 

Ernest Maltravers, by Lord LyttomJO 
The Haanted House and Calderon 

the Courtier, by Lord l,ytton..l0 
John Halifax, bv Miss Mulock. ..20 

800 Leagues on the Amazon 10 

The Cryptogram, by Jules Verne. 10 

Life of Marion, by Horry « . > ,20 

Paul and Virginia ,...10 

Tale of Two Cities, by Dickens.. J2' 

The Hermits, by King?ley . . . .20 

An Adventure in Thnle, and Mar- 
riage of Moira Firgnp, Black .10 
A Marriage in t: i^h Life, ...,,.. 20 

Kobiu, by Mrs. Parr 20 

Tv/oon a Tower, by Thos. Hardj.gO 
Rasselas, by Samuel John eon., ^,10 
Alice; or, the Mysteries, being 

Part II. of Ernest Maltrr)V€r?..20 
Duke of Kandos. by A. Mat'hey.,.^0 
Baron Munchausen ...... i '» 

A Princess of Thule, I 
The Secret Despatch, bj 
Early Day* of Chri^tir 

Canon Farrar. D D:, 
Early Days oH f ■h:ri£{ia; 
Ticar of Wai-.- ^ : '■' ' - * -..-. 

rr^gre.?s an^' ? 

George.... ....20 

The Spy, >^^.. ^ •• ^^ 

East Lynne, by Mrs. Vvo6d...20 
A Strange Story, by Lord I>ytton. . , 20 
Adam Bede, by Eliot, Parti... ,.15 

Adam Bede, Partll . .15 

The Golden Shaft, by GibboH....20 

Portia, by The Duchess ... ...... ?0 

Last Davs of Pompeii, by Lytton. .20 
The Two Duchesses, by Mathey". .20 
■Tom Browii'a Rrbnol 'Days 20 



C2. TheWooirgO't< by Mrs. Alex- 
ander, Parti... — ............15 

The Woohig O't. Part II. ....... 15 

63. The Vendetta, by Balzac... .SO 

64. Hypatia,by Chas.Kingsley.P tl.15 
Hypatia, by Kingsley, Part I >. . . . 15 

65. Seima, by Mrs. J. G. Smith .... 1 5 

66. Margaret and her Bridef^ma'ds..20 

67. Horse Shoe Robinson, Part I.... 16 
Hor.^e Shoe Robinson, Part II. ,.15 

68. Gulliver's Travels, by SwU ( 20 

60. Amos Barton, by George Eiiot...lO 

70. The Berber, by W . E. Mayo 20 

71. Silas Marner, by George Eliot. . .10 

72. The Queen of the County 20 

73. Life of Cromvoll, by Hood... 15 

74. Jane Eyre, by Ch;;rloire Broutd.20 

75. Child's HiHory of England 20 

76. Holly Bawn, by The Duchess. . .20 

7*? Pillone, by William BergsOe 15 

73, Phyllis, by The Duchess 20 

79. Roinola, by Geo. Eliot, Part I. . . ] S 
Romola,by Geo, Eliot, Part II.. 15 

80. Science in Short Chapters 20 

81« Zanonl, by Lord Ly : ton 20 

82. A Daughter of Hot h £0 

83. The Right and Wrong U- cs of 

the Bible, R. HeberNev.ton. ..20 

84. Kight and Morning, Pt. 1 15 

Nif "ht and Morning. Part II 15 

85. Shandon Bells, by Wm. Black.. 20 

86. Monica, by the Dnchens .V . . 10 

87. Heart and JTcience, by Collins. . .gO 
8S. The Golden Calf, by Braddon. . .20 

89. The Dean's Daughter, SO 

90. Mrs. Geoffrey, by The Duchess.. 20 
9U Pickwick Papers, Part I. .- 20 

Pickwick Papers, Part II 20 

9!?. Airy, Fairy Lilian, The Duchess. 20 

93. McLeod of Dare, by Wm. Bl.'ick 20 

94. Tempest Tossed, by Tilton.P't I ^^.0 
Tempest Tos?=ed. by Til ton, P'tII20 

96.. Letters fromRligh Latitudes, by 

Lord Dulierin 50 

?6, Gideon Fleyce, by Lucy 20 

97. India and Ceylon, by E-. Hseckel . .SO 

98. The Gvpsy Queen '.0 

99. The Admiral's Ward 20 

100. KimpoTt. by E. L. Brnncr, P"t I . .15 
Kiniport. byE. L. Bynner, P til. 15 

101. Harry Holbrooke 20 

:02. TrUons, by E L. ByT.ncr,P'tI. , .15 

Tritons, by E. L. Byx inr, P't II. .15 

^0-^ 'Lot t<r,ri.,.,a Vi;U "i^:-n--,v 'Uv 

to 

.^ .,.._..- ..20 

i05. v» oraau o 1 icice 'lo-dtij , i.>y irir.-s. 

LillieDevertux Blake 20 

105. Dunallan, by Kennedy, PartT. . .15 
Dunaliaa, by Kenutdy, Part II. .15 
107. HouGeVeepihg aiad Hi me-ro.^k- 

jr:-' hv Worion TTsinlajid 15 

108.? '^V.E.Norri8.£0 

109. "■ v.ir^rs 20 

110. i .._. . . . .:dwin Smith. 15 

111. L?.oor and Capital -. SO- 
US. Waiida, by Oniua, Part 1 15 

T;;.:ioa_ bvOi,ir-a. PRrtn....,..16 



BRACEBRIDGE HALL; 

OR, 

THE HUMOURISTS. 

A MEDLEY. 

By GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 

Under this cioud I T>'alk, Gentlanien ; pardon my rude assault. I am a traveller, 
who, having surve^'ed most of the terreslrial angles of this globe, am hither ar- 
rived, to peruse this little spot.— Christmas Ordinary. 

THE AUTHOR. 

Worthy Reader! 

On again taking pen in hand, I would fain make a few ob- 
servations at the outset, by way of bespeaking a right under- 
standing. The volumes which I have already published hayc 
met with a reception far beyond my most sangume expectations. 
I would willingly attribute this to then' intrinsic merits ; but, in 
spite of the vanity of authorship, I cannot but be sensible that 
their success has, in a great measure, been owiag to a less flat- 
tering cause. It has been a matter of marvel, to my European 
readers, that a man from the wilds of America should express 
himsel^in tolerable English. I was looked upon as somethmg 
new and strange in literature ; a kind of demi-savage, with a, 
feather in his hand, instead of on his head; and there wa.s a 
curiosity to hear what such a being had to say about civilized 
society. 

This novelty is now at an end, and of course the feeling of 
indulgence wlrich it produced. I must now expect to bear the 
ecratiny of yst<»3-ner criticism, and t^ ho measui*ed by the same 



g BRACHBUIDQE HALL. -" ->/><- 



t^^P,,*? 



standard mth contemporary Wi'iters ; and the vei^/ favor whi.cb 
has been shoT^Ti to my previous writings, will caiiso tii.-se to be 
treated vnth the greater rigour ; as* there isni:.;Miig lor y\- inch 
the world is apt to punish a man more severely, tlian for having 
been over-jjraised. On this head, therefore, I wish to forestall 
the censoriousness of the reader; and I entreat he will not 
think the worse of me for the ma.ny injudicious things that raay 
iiave been sa,id in my conunendatior). 

I am aware that I often travel over beaten gi'ound, and treat 
of subjects that have already hid^w discussed by abler pens. 
Indeed, various authors have been mentioned as my models, to 
whom I should feel flattered if I thought I bore the slightest 
resemblance ; but in truth I write after no model tha.t I am 
conscious of, and I write with no idea, of imitation or competi- ^ 
tion. In venturing occasionally on toj^ics that ha,ve already 
been almost exhausted by English authors, I do it, not with the 
presumption of challenging a comparison, but with the hope 
that some new interest may be given to such topics, when dis- 
cussed by the pen of a stranger. 

If, therefore, I should sometimes be found dwelling with 
fojidness on subjects that are trite and commonplace with the 
reader, I beg that the circumstances Tinder which I write may 
be kept in recollection. Having been born and brought up in a 
new country, yet educated from infancy in the literature of an 
old one, my mind was early filled with historical and r>oetical 
associations, connected ^'^dth places, and manners, and customs 
of Europe ; but which could rarely be applied to those of my 
own country. To a mind thus pecuhariy prepared, the most 
ordinary objects and scenes, on arriving in Europe, are full of 
strange matter and interesting novelty. England is as classic 
ground to an American as Italy is to an Englisbman ; and old 
London teems with as much historical association as mighty 
Rome. 

Indeed, it is diiScult to describe the whimsical medley of 
that throng upon his mind, on landing among English 



Sf)^ 



scenes. He, for the first time, sees a world about \yhich he has 
been reading-and thinking in every stage of his existence.' The 
recollected ideas of infancy, youth, and manhood -, of the nursery, 
the school, and the study, come swarming at once upon him ; 
and his attention is distracted between great and little objects ; 
each of which, perhaps, av/akens an equa^lly dehghtfid train of 
remembrances. 
But what more especia^lb/ attracts his notice, are those pecu- 



THE AUTHOR. 7 

liaritief? which distinguish an old country and an old stato of 
society from a nc^w one. I have never yet groAvn familiar 
enough with the <.;rumbiing monuments of past ages, to blunt 
the intense interest witli which I at first beheld them. Accus- 
tomed always to scenes Avhere history Avas, in a manner, in 
anticipation ; where every thing in art was n(3w and progressive, 
and pointed to the future rather than to the past ; Avhere, in 
short, the worivs of man gave no ideas but those of yoimg exis 
tence, and prospective improvement; there was something 
inexpressiblj' toucliing in the sight of enormous piles of archi- 
tecture, gray with antiquity, and sinking into decay. I cannot 
describe the mute but deep-felt enthusiasm with wliich I have 
contemplated a vast monastic ruin, like Tintern Abbey, buried 
in the bosom of a quiet valley, and sliut up from the Vv'orld, as 
though it had existed merely for itself ; or a warrior pile, like 
Conway Castle, standing in stern loneliness on its rocky height, 
a mere hollow yet threatening phantom of departed power. 
They spread a grand, and melanclioly, and, to me, an imusual 
charm over the landscape ; I, for the first time, beheld signs of 
national old age, and empire's decay, and proofs of the tran- 
sient and perishing glories of s^% amidst the ever-springing and 
reviving fertihty of nature. 

But, m fact, to me every thing was full of matter ; the f oot- 
Bteps of history Vv-ere every where to be traced ; and poetry had 
breathed over and sanctified the land. I experienced the de- 
lightful freshness of feelmg of a child, to whom every thing is 
new. I pictured to myself a sist of inhabitants and a mode . of 
life for every habitation that I sav/, from the aristocratical 
mansion, amidst the lordly repose of stately groves and solitary 
parts, to the straw -thatched cottage, with its scanty garden 
and its cherished woodbine. . I thought I never could be sated 
with the sweetness and freshness of a countr^^ so completely 
carjDeted with verdure ; where every air breathed of the baJiny 
pasture, and the honej'-suckled hedge. I was continually 
coming upon some little document of poetry, in the blossomed 
hawthorn, the daisy, the cowslip, the piimrose, or some other 
simple object that has received a supernatural value from the 
muse. The first time that I heard th(3 song of the nightingale, 
I was intoxicated more by the delicious crowd of remembered 
associations than by the melody of its notes ; and I shah never 
forget the thrill of ecstasy v/ith which I first saw the lark rise, 
almost from beneath my feet, and T>Tng its musical flight up 
into the morning sky. 



e^ BllACEBIUlJiiE HALL. 

In this way I traversed England, a grown-up child, delighted 
by every object, gi'eat and small ; and betraying a wondering 
ignorance, and simple enjoyment, that provoked many a stare 
and a smile from my wiser and more experienced fellow-tra- 
vellers. Such too was the odd confusion of associations that 
kept breaking upon me, as I first approached London. One of 
my earliest wishes had been to see tliis great metropolis. I had. 
read so much about it in the earliest books that had been put 
into my infant hands; and I liad heard so much about it from 
those around m.e who had come from the " old countries." I 
w£is familiar with the names of its streets, and squares, and 
public places, before I knew those of my native city. . It was, 
to me, the great centre of the world, round which every thing 
seemed to revolve. I recollect contemplating so wistfully, when 
a boy, a paltry little print of the Thames, and London Bridge, 
and St. Paul's, that was in front of an old magazme ; and a pic- 
ture of Kensington' Gardens, with gentlemen in three-cornered 
hats and broad skirts, and ladies in hoops and lappets, that 
hung up in my bed-room; even the venerable cut of St. 
o'ohn's G-ate, that has stood, time out of mind, in front of the 
Gentleman's Magazine, was not without its charms to me ; and 
I envied the cdd4ooking little men that appeared to be loitering 
about its arches. 

How then did my heart wann when the towers of West- 
minster Abbey were pointed out to me, rising above the rich 
groves of St. James's Park, with a thin blue haze about then- 
gi^ay pinnacles ! I could not behold this great mausoleum of 
what is most illustrious in our paternal history, without feeling 
my enthusiasm in a glov/. With what eagerness did I explore 
every part of the metropolis I I was not content with those 
matters which occupy the dignified research of the learned 
traveller; I dehghted to call up all the feelings of childhood, and 
to seek after those objects which had been the wonders of my 
i.if ancy . London Bridge, so famous in nursery songs ; the far- 
famed Monument ; Gog and Magog, and the Lions in the Tower, 
all brought back many a recollection of infantile delight, and 
of good old beings, now no more, v/ao had gossiped about 
tlieni to my wondering oar. Nor was it without a recurrence of 
childish interest, that I first peeped into Mr. Newberry's shop, 
in St. Paul's Church-yard, that founi^ain-head of literature. 
Mr. Newberry was the first that ever filled my infant mind 
with the idea of a great and good man. He published all the 
picture-books of the day; and, out of his abundant love for 



THE AUTUOU. 9 

cMdren, he charged ' ' nothing for either paper or print, and 
only a penny-halfpenny for the binding!" 

I have mentioned these circumstances, worth;/ reader, to 
show you the whinxsical crowd of associations that are ajjt to 
beset my mind on mingling among English scenes. I hope they 
may, in some measure, plead my apology, should I be found 
harping upon stale and trivial themes, or indulging an over- 
fondness for any thing antique and obsolete. I know it is the 
humour, not to say cant of the day, to run riot about old times, 
old books, old customs, and old buildings; with myself, how- 
ever, as far as I have caught the contagion, the feeling is 
genuine. To a man from a young country, all old things are 
in a manner new ; and he may surely be excused in being a 
Httle curious about antiquities, whose native land, unfortun- 
ately, cannot boast of a single ruin. 

Having been brought up, also, in the comparative simplicity 
of a republic, I am apt to be struck with even the ordinary' 
circumstances incident to an aristocratical state of society. 
If, however, I should at any time amuse myself by pointing 
out some of the eccentricities, and some of the poetical charac- 
teristics of the latter, I would not be understood as pretending 
to decide upon its political merits. My only aim is to paint 
characters and manners. I am no politician. The more I have 
considered the study of politics, the more I have found it full 
of perplexity ; and I have v?^ontented myself, as I have in my 
religion, with the faith in which I was brought up, regulating 
my own conduct by its precepts ; but lea^dng to abler heads 
the task of making converts. 

I shall continue on, therefore, in the course I have hitherto 
pursued; looking at things poetically, rather than politically; 
describing them as they are, rather than pretending to point 
cut how they-'should be ; and endeavouring to see the world in 
as pleasant a light as circumstances ^vili permit. 

I have always had an opinion that much good might be done 
]jy keeping mankind in good-liumoift' with one another. I may 
bo wrong in my philosophy, but I shall continue to practise it 
until convinced of its fallacy. When I discover the ^^^^orld to 
be fill that it has been represented by sneering cynics and 
whining poets, I will turn to ana abuse it also: in the mean- 
while, worthy reader, I liope you will not think lightly of me, 
because I cannot believe this to be so very bad a world as \t is 
represented. 

Thine truly, Geoffrey Crayon. 



10 BliAOEBRIDGE BALL. 



THE HALL. 

The ancient house, and the best for h'usekeeping in this county or the nest: and 
though the master of it write but squire, I linovs- uo lord hke him..— Merry Reg gars. 

The reader, if he has perused the volumes of the Sketch- 
Book, will proioably recollect something of the Bracebiidge 
family, with which I ouce passed a Christmas. I am now on 
another visit to the Hall, having been invited to a wedding 
which is shortly to take place. The Squire's second son, Guy, 
a fine, spirited young captaui in the army, is about to be mar- 
ried to his father's ward, the fan* Julia Templeton. A ga-thcr- 
ing of relations and friends has already commenced, to celebrate 
the joyful occasion ; for the old gentleman is an enemy to quiet, 
private weddings. " There is nothing," he says, "like launch- 
ing a young couple gayly , and cheering them from the shore ; 
a good outset is haii the voyage." 

Before proceeding any farther, I Avould beg that the Squire 
might not be confounded with that class of hard-riding, fox- 
hunting gentlemen so often described, and, in fact, so nearly 
extinct in England. I use this rural title partly because it is 
his universal appellation throughout the neighbourhood, and 
partly because it saves me the frequent repetition of his name, 
which is one of those rough old Enghsh names at which 
Frenchmen exclaun in despair. 

The Squire is, in fact, a lingering specimen of the old English 
countiw gentleman; rusticated a little by living almost entirely 
on his estate, and something of a humourist, as Englislunen are 
apt to become when they have an opportunity of living in their 
own way. I like his hobby passing well, however, Which is, a 
bi,i?oted devotion to old English manners and customs; it jumps 
a little with my own humor, having as yet a lively and unsated 
curiosity about the ancient and genuine characteristics of my 
''fatherland." 

' There are some traits about the Squire's family, also, which 
appear to me to be national. It is one of those old aristocrati-- 
cai famines, wliich, I beheve, are peculiar to England, and 
scarcely understood in other countries ; that is to say, families 
of the "ancient gentry, who, though destitute of titled rank, 
maintain a high ancestral pride; who look down upon all 
nobility of recent creation, and would consider it a sacrifice of 



THE HALL, 11 

dignity to merge the venerable name of their house in a 
modern title. 

This feeling is very much fostered by the importance which 
they enjoy on their hereditary domains. The family mansion 
is an old manor-house, standing in a rutiied and beautiful part 
of Yorkshire. Its inhabitants have been always regarded, 
through the surrounding country, as "the great ones of the 
earth;" and the little village near the Hall looks up to the 
Squire with almost feudal homage. An old manor-house, and 
an old family of this kind, are rarely to be met with at the 
present day; and it is probably the peculiar humour of the 
Squii'o that has retained this secluded specimen of English 
housekeeping in something lilvO the genuine old style. 

I am again quartered in the panelled chamber, in the antique 
wing of the house. The prospect from the window, however, 
has quite a dilferent aspect from that which it wore on my 
"winter visit. Though early in the month of April, yet a few 
warm, simshiny days, have drawn forth the beauties of the 
spring, which, I think, are always most captivating on theii- 
first opening. The parterres of the old-fashioned garden are 
gay vath flowers; and the gardener has brought out his exotics, 
and placed them along the stone balustrades. The trees are 
clothed with green buds and tender leaves. When I thi'ow 
open my jingling casement, I smell the odour of mignonette, 
and hear the hum of the bees from the flowers against the 
sumiy wail, with the varied song of the throstle, and the cheer- 
ful notes of the tuneful little wren. 

While sojourning in tliis strong-hold of old fashions, it is my 
intention to make occasional sketches of the scenes and chara,c- 
ters before me. I would have it understood, however, that I 
am not writing a novel, and have nothing of intrica^te plot, or 
marvellous adventure, to promise the reader. The Hall of 
which I treat, has, for aught I knovr, neither trap-door, iror 
slidiug-panel, nor donjon-keep ; and indeed appears to have no 
m3'stery about it. The family is a worthy, v/eil-meaning 
family, that, in all probability, v/ill eat and drink, and go to 
bed, and get up regularly, from one end of my v/ork to *the 
other ; and the Squire is so kind-hearted an old gentleman, that 
I see no likehhood of his throwing any kind of distress in the 
uay of the approaching nuptials. In a word, I cannot fore- 
see a single extraordinary event that is hkely to occm- in the 
whole term of my sojourn at the Hall. 

I tell this honestly to the reader, lest, when he finds me 



12 BRACEBBIDGE HALL. 

dallying along, througli every-day English scenes, hQ may 
hurry ahead, in hopes of meeting vdth some marvellous adven- 
ture further on. I invite hhn, on the contrary, to ramble 
gently on v/ith me, as he would saunter out into the fields, 
stopping occasionally to gather a flower, or listen to a bird, or 
admire a prospect, without any anxiety to arrive at the end of 
bis career. Should I, however, in the course of my loiterings 
about this old mansion, see or hear anytliing curious, tlicxt 
might serve to vary the monotony of this e very-day life, I 
shall not fail to report it for the reader's entertainm-ent : 
i 

For freshest wits I kuow will soon be wearie 

Of any book, how grave so e'er it be, 
Except it have odd matter, strange and meriie, 
Well sauc'd with lies and glared all with giee,* 



THE BUSY MAN. 



A decayed gentleman, who lives most upon his own mirth and my master's 
means, and much good do him with it. He does hold my master up with his 
stories, and songs, and catches, and such tricks and jigs, you would admire— ho is 
vrith him now .—Jovial Creui. 

By no one Jias my return to the Hall been more heartily 
greeted than by Mr. Simon Bracebridge, or Master Simon, as 
the Squire most commonly calls him. I encountered him just 
as I entered the park, where he was breaking a pointer, and he 
received me with all the hospitable cordiality with which a 
man welcomes a friend to another one's house. I have already 
introduced him to the reader as a brisk old bachelor-looking 
little man ; the wit and superannuated beau of a large family 
connection, and the Squire's factotum. I found him, as usual, 
fall of bustle ; vfitli a thousand petty things to do, and persons 
to attend to, and in chirping good-humour ; for there are f eiv 
happier beings than a busy idler ; that is to say, a man who is 
eternally busy about notliing. 

I visited hun, the morning after my arrival, in his chaml^er, 
which is in a remote corner of the mansion, as he says he hkes 
to bo to himself, and out of the 'w-aj. He has fitted it up in his 
own taste, so that it is a perfect epitome of an old bachelor's 
notions of convenience and "arrangement. The furniture is 

* Mirror for Magistrates. 



Tlliy BUSY MAN. IM 

made up of odd pieces from all parts of the house, chosen on 
account of their suiting his notions, or fitting some corner of 
his apartment ; and he is very eloquent in praise of an ancient 
elbow-chair, from which he takes occasion to digress into a 
censure on modem chairs, as having degenerated from the 
dignity and comfort of high-backed antiquitj'. 

Adjoining to iiis room is a small cabinet, which he calls liis 
Btudy. Here are some hanging shelves, of his own construc- 
tion, on which are several old works on havv^king, hunting, and 
fariiery, and a collection or two of poems and songs ot the 
reign of Ehzabeth, v^4lich he studies out of comphment to the 
Squire; together with the Novelist's Magazine, the Sporting- 
Magazine, the Eacing Calendar, a volume or two of the New- 
gate Calendar, a book of peerage, and another of heraldry. 

His sporting dresses hang on pegs in a small closet; and 
about the walls of his apartment are hooks to hold his fishing- 
taclde, whips, spurs, and a^ favourite fowHng-piece, curiously 
wrought and inlaid, which he inherits from his grandfather. 
He has, also, a couple of old single-keyed flutes, and a fiddle 
which he has repeatedly patched and mended himseK, affirming 
it to be a veritable Cremona, though I have never heard him 
extract a single note from it that was not enough to make one's 
blood run cold. 

^From this little nest his fiddle will often be heard, in t lie 
stillness of mid-day, drowsily sa wing some long-forgotten time ; 
for he prides himself on having a choice, collection of good old 
Enghsli music, and will scarcely have any tiling to do with 
modern composers. The time, however, at which *his musical 
powers are of most use, is now and then of an evening, when 
he plays for the children to dance in the haii, and he passof- 
among them and the servants for a perfect Orpheus. 

His chamber also bears evidence of his various avocatic:::-: 
there are half -copied sheets of music; designs for ioeedic- work ; 
sketches of landscapes, very, indiiterently executed ; a camera 
lucida; a magic lantern, for v\%ich he is endeavoring to paint 
glasses;, in a word, it is the cabmet of a man of many accom- 
plishments, who knows a little of every thing, and docs nothing 
well. 

After I had spent some time in his apartment, admiring the 
ingenuity of his small inventions, he took me ahout the estab- 
hshment, to visit the stables, d(^g-kennel, and other dependen- 
cies, in which he appeared like a general ^dsiting the diflerent 
quarters of his earii]^; a-.i the Squire iea\e« the control of all 



14: BEACEBRWGE HALL. 

these matters to him, when he is at the Hall. He inquired 
into the state of the horses ; examined their feet ; prescribed a 
drench for one, and bleeding for another ; and then took me to 
look at his own horse, on the merits of which he dwelt with 
great prolixity, and which, I noticed, had the best stall in the 
stable. 

^ After this I was taken to a new toy of his and the Squire's, 
which he termed the falconry, where there were several un- 
happy birds in durance, completing their education. Among 
the number was a fine falcon, which Master Simon had in 
especial training, and he told me that he would show me, in a 
few days, some rare sport of the good old-fashioned kind. In 
the course of our round, I noticed that the grooms, game-keep- 
er, whippers-in, and other retainers, seemed all to be on some- 
what of a familiar footing with Master Simon, and fond of 
having a joke ^vith him, though it was evident they had great 
deference for his opinion in matters relating to their functions. 

There was one exception, however, in a testy old huntsman, 
as hot as a pepper-corn ; a meagre, wiry old fellow, in a thread- 
bare velvet jockey cap, and a pair of leather breeches, that, 
from much wear, shone, as though they had been japanned.- 
He was very contradictory and pragmatical, and apt, as I 
thought, to differ from Master Sunon now aild then, out of 
mere captiousness. This v/as particularly the case with respect 
to the treatment of the hawk, wliich the old man seemed to 
have under his peculiar care, and, according to Master Simon, 
was in a fair way to ruin: the latter -had a vast deal to say 
about casting, and imping, and gleaming^ and enseaming, and" 
giving the hawk the o -angle, which I saw was all , heathen 
Greek to old Christy; but he miaintained his point notwith- 
standing, and seemed to hold all this technical lore in utter 
disrespect. 

I was surprised with the good-humour with which Master 
Simon bore his contradictions, till he explained the matter to 
me afterwards. Old Chiisty is the most ancient servant in the 
place, having hved among dogs and horses the greater part of 
a century, and been in the service of Mr. Bracebridge's father. 
He knows the pedigree of every horse on the place, and has 
bestrode the great-great-grand sires of most of them. He can 
give a circumstantial detail of every fox-hunt for the last sixtj- 
or seventy years, and has a history for every stag's head about 
the house, and every hunting trophy nailed to the door of the 
dos'-kennol. 



TIIK BUST MAX. 15 

All the present race have groT\Ti up under his eye, and humour 
him in his old age. He once attended the Squire to Oxford, 
when he was a student there, and enlightened the whole univer- 
sity with his hunting lore. All this is enough to make the old 
nmn opinionated, since he finds, on aU these matters of first- 
rate importance, he knows more than the rest of the world. 
Indeed, Master Simon had been his pupil, and acknowledges 
thctt he derived his first knowledge in hunting from the in- 
sinictions of Christy; and I much question whether the old 
man does not still look upon him rather as a greenhoi-n. 

On our return homewards, as we were crossing the lawn in 
front of the house, we heard the porter's bcU ring at the lodge, 
and shortly afterwards, a kind of cavalcade advanced slowly 
up the avenue. Ali sight of it my companion paused, consid- 
ered it for a moment, and then, making a sudden exclamation, 
hurried away to meet it. i^s it approached, I discovered a fan-, 
fresh-looking elderly lady, dressed in an old-fashioned riding- 
habit, with a broad-brimmed white beaver hat, such as may be 
seen in Sir Joshua Eeynoldis' paintings. She rode a sleek white 
pony, and was followed by a footman in rich livery, mounted 
on an over-fed hunter. At a httle distance in the rear came an 
rmcient cumbrous chariot, drawn by two very corpulent horses, 
driven by as corpulent a coachman, beside Avhom sat a page 
dressed in a fanciful green livery. Inside of the chariot was a 
starched prim personage, with a look somewhat between a 
lady's companion and a lady's maid; and two pampered curs, 
that showed their ugly faces, and barked out of each ivindow. 

There was a general turning out of the garrison, to receive 
this new comer. The Squire assisted her to alight, and saluted 
her affectionately ; the fair Juha flew into her arms, and they 
embraced with the romantic fervour of boarding-school friends : 
she was escorted into the house by Julia's lover, towards M^hom 
she showed distinguished favour ; 'and a hne of the old servants, 
wlio had collected in tlie Hall, bowed most profoundly as she 
passed. 

I observed that Master Simon was most assiduous and devout 
in his attentions upon this old lady. He walked by the side of her 
pony, up the avenue; and, while she was receiving the saluta- 
tions of the rest of the fa mil 5^, he took occasion to notice the fat 
coachman; to pat the sleek carriage horses, and, above all, to 
say a civil word to my lady's gentlewoman, the prim, sour- 
looking vestal in the chariot. 

I had no more of his company for the rest 'of the morning. 



- iQ BRACEBRIDGE II AIL. 

He was swept off in the vortex that followed in the wake of 
this loAj. Once indeed he paused for a moment, as he was 
hurrying on some errand of the good lady's, to let me knov/ 
that J;liis w(is Lady Lilly craft, a sister of tlie Sqiiu-e's, of large 
fortune, which the captain would ii^herit, and that her estate 
lay in one of the best sporting counties in all England. 



FAMILY SERVxiNTS. 

Verily old servants are the vouchers of worthy housekeeping. They are like rats 
in-a mansiou, or mites in a cheese, bespeaking the antiquity and fatness of their 
abode. 

In my casual anecdotes of the Hall, I may often be tempted 
to dy/eil on circumstances of a trite and ordinary nature, from 
tli-eir appearing to me illustrative of genuine national character. 
It seems to be the study of the Squire to adhere, as much as 
possible, to what he considers the old landmarks of Enghsh 
manners. His serva^nts all understand his ways, and for the 
most part have been accustomed to them from infancy; so 
that, upon the vmole, his household presents one of the few 
tolerable specimens that can now be met with, of the establish- 
ment of an Enghsh country gentleman of the old school. 

By the by, the servants are not the least characteristic part 
of the household : the housekeeper, for insta.nce, has been born 
aiid brought up at the Hall, and has never been tv/enty miles 
from it; yet she has a stately air, that would not disgrace a 
lady that had figured at the court of Queen Elizabeth. ' 

I am half inclined to think that she has caught it from Mving 
so much among the old family pictures. It may, however, be 
ovvdng to a consciousness of her importance in the sphere in 
wiiich she has always moved ; for she is greatly respected in 
the neighbouring village, and among the farmers' wives, and 
has high authority in the household, ruling over the servants 
with quiet, but undisputed sway. 

She is a tlhn old lady, with blue eyes and pomted nose and 
chin. Her dress is always the same as to fashion. She wears 
a sma-ll, well-starclied ruif, a laced stomacher, full petticoats, 
and a gown festooned and open in front, which, on particuiaa.' 
occasions, is of ancient silk, the legacy of some former dame of 
the family, or an inheritance from her mother, who was house- 



FAMILY SERVANTS. 17 

keeper before her. I have a reverence for these old garnionts, 
as I make no doubt they have figured about these apartments 
in days long past, when they have set off the charms of some 
peerless family beauty; and I have sometimes looked from the 
old housekeeper to the neighbouring porti-aits, to see whether I 
could not recognize her antiquated brocade in tiie dress of 
someone of those long-waisted dames that smile on me from 
the walls. 

Her hah', which is quite white, is frizzed out in front, and 
she wears over it a small cap, nicely plaited, and brought down 
under the chin. Her manners are simple and primitive, height- 
ened a httle by a proper dignity of station. 

The Hall is her world, and the history of the family the only 
history she knows, excepting that which she has read in the 
Bible. She can give a biography of every portrait in the pic- 
ture gallery, and is a complete family chronicle. 

She is treated with great consideration by the Squire. In- 
deed, Master Simon tells me that there is a traditional anecdote 
current among the servants, of the Squire's ha\dng been seen 
kissing her in the picture gallery, when they v/ere both young. 
As. however, nothing further was ever noticed between them, 
the circumstance caused no great scpaidal; only she was ob- 
served to take to reading Pamela shortly afterwards, and 
refused the hand of the village iim-keeper, vv-hom she had pre- 
viously smiled on. 

The old butler, who was formerly footman, and a rejected 
admirer of hers, used to tell the anecdote now and then, at those 
little cabals that will occasionally take place a,mong the most 
orderly servants, arising from the common propensity of the 
governed to talk against administration ; but he has left it off, 
of late years, since he has risen into place, and shakes his head 
rebukingly when it is mentioned. 

It is certain that the old lady will, to this day, dwell on the 
looks of the Squire when he was a young man at college ; and 
she maintains that none of liis sons can compare with their 
father when he was of their age, and was dressed out in his 
full suit of scarlet, with his hair craped and powdered, and his 
three-cornered hat. 

She has an orphan niece, a prettj', soit-heart.fed bagghge, 
named Phoebe Wnkins, who lias been transplanted to the Hall 
witliin a year or two, and been nearly spoiled for any condition 
of life. She is a kind of attendant and companion of the fair 
Julia's; and from loitering about the young lad7f's apartments, 



IQ BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 

reading scraps of novels, and inheriting second-iiand finery, 
has become something between a waiting-m.aid and a slipshod 
fine lady. 

She is considered a kind of heiress among the servants, as 
she Will inlierit all her aimt's property ; which, if report be true, 
must be a round sum of good golden guineas, the accumulated 
wealth of two housekeepers' savings ; not to mention the heredi- 
tary wardi^obe, and the many httle valuables and knick-knaclsis, 
treasured up in the housekeepers' room. Indeed, the old 
housekeeper has the reputation, among the servants and the 
villagers, of being passing rich ^ and there is a japanned chest 
of drav\rers, and a large iron-bound coffer in her room, which 
are supposed, by the house-maids, to hold treasures of wealth. 

The old lady is a great friend of Master Simon, who, indeed, 
pays a little court to her, as to a person high in authority ; and 
they have many discussions on points of family history, m 
wiiich, notwithstandmg his extensive mf ormation, and pride <.£ 
knowledge, he commonly admits her superior accuracy. Ho 
seldom returns to the Hall, after one of his visits to the other 
brandies of the fanhly, v^ithout bringing Mrs. Wilkins some 
remembrance from the ladies of the house where he has been 
staying. 

Indeed, all the children of the house look up to the old lady 
with habitual respect and attachment, and she seems almost to 
consider them as lier own, from their havmg grown up under 
her eye. The Oxon:tan, however, is her favourite, probably ii'Om 
being the yomigest, though he is the most mischievous, and has 
been apt to play tricks upon her from boyhood. 

I camiot help mentioning one little ceremony, wiiich, I be- 
lieve, is peculiar to the Hall. After the cloth is removed at 
dinner, the old housekeeper sails into the room and stands be- 
hind the Squire's chaii', when he fills her a glass of wine with 
his own hands, in which she drmks the health of the company 
in a truly respectful yet dignified manner, and then retires. 
The Squire received the custom from his father, and has always 
continued it. 

There is a pecuhar character about the servants of old Eng- 
lish families that reside principally in the cOimtry. They have 
a quiet, orderly, respectful mode of doing their duties. They 
are always neat in their persons, and ap]")ropriately, and if I 
may use the phrase, technically dressed ; they .move about tlie 
house without hurry or noise ; there is nothing oi the bustle of 
employment, or the voice of command ; nothing of that obtrusive 



FAMILY SHRVA^TS. 19 

•housewifery that amounts to a torment. You are not persecu- 
ted bv tlie process of niakni^^ you comloi1,able ; yet every thmg 
is done and is done well. The v/oik of the house is performed 
as if bv magic, but it is the magic of system. Nothmg is done 
by fits' and starts, nor at awkward seasons; the whole goes on 
like well-oiled clock-work, where there is no lioise nor jarring 

in its operations, -, -xi 

English servants, in general, are not treaced with greai iii- 
duh'-ence, nor rewarded by many commendations; for the 
En'^hshare laconic and reserved toward their domestics; but 
an^provingnodand a kind word from master or mistress, 
goes as far here, as an excess of praise or indulgence elsewhere. 
Neither do sei-vants often exhibit any animated marks of affec- 
tion to their emplovers; yet, though quiet, they are strong in 
their attachments: and the - reciprocal regard of masters and 
servants, though not ardently expressed, is powerful and last- 
ing in old Enghsh families. 

ThA title of ''an old fcimily sei-^^ant" carries with it a thousand 
kind associations, in aU parts of the world; and there is no 
claim upon the home-bred charities of the heart more irresisti- 
ble than that of having been "born in tlie house." It is com- 
mon to see gray-headed domestics of this kind attached to an 
Enghsh family of the '' old school," who continue in it to the 
day of their death, in the enjoyment of steady, unaiieected 
kindness, and tlie performance of faithful, imofficious duty. 1 
think such instances of attachment speak weh for both master 
and servant' and the frequency of them speaks well for national 

character. ^ -• 4- 

These observations, however, hold good only with families oi 
the description I have mentioned ; and ^\'itli such as are soip.e 
what retired, and pass the greater part of their tune in tlic 
comitry. As to the powdered menials that throng the hail 
of fashionable tov/n residences, they equally reflect the chare 
ter of the estabiishineiits to Avhi('h they belong; and I knovv' 
more complete epitomes of dissolute heartiessness and r-; 
pered inutility. 

But, the good "old family servant!'' -the one who basal \va\s 
been linked, in idea, with the home of our heai-t: who has led 
us to school in the daj'S of pratthng childhood; who lias b-cen 
the confidant of our boyish cares, and schemes, and enterprises ; 
who has hailed us an we came home aL vacations, and been the 
promoter of all our hohday sports; who, wlien we, in wander- 
ing manhood, have left tiie paternal roof, and only return 



e- 



;ac- 

11 o 



'Jf^^^" BRA GEBRU) G E HALL. 

thither at intervals — >viil welcome us with a joy inferior only to 
that of our parents ; who, now gi'own gray and infirm with age, 
still totters about the house of our fathers, in fond and faithful 
ser^dtude ; who claims us, in a manner, as his own ; and hastens 
with querulous eagerness to anticipate his fellow-domestics in 
waiting upon us at table ; and who, when we retire at night to 
the chamber that still goes by our name, will linger about the 
room to have one more kind look, and one more pleasant word 
about times that are past— who does not experience towards 
such a being a feeling of almost filial affection? 

I have met with several instances of epitaphs on the grave- 
stones of such valuable domestics, recorded with the sim- 
ple truth of natural feeling. I have two before me at this 
moment; one copied from a tombstone of a church-yard in 
Warwickshire : 

"Here lieth the body of Joseph Batte, confidential servant to 
George Birch, Esq., of Kamstead Hall. His grateful friend 
and master caused this inscription to be written in memory of 
his discretion, fidelity, diligence, and continence. He died (a 
bachelor) aged 84, haA^mg lived 44 years in the same family." 

The other was taken from a tombstone in Eltham church- 
yard: 

"Here Me the remains of Mr. James Tappy, who departed 
this life on the 8th of September, 1818, aged 84, after a faithful 
sei'vice of 60 years in one family ; by each individual of which 
he lived respected, and died lamented by the sole survivor." 

Few monuments, even of the illustrious, have given me the 
glow about the heart that I felt while copying this honest epi- 
taph in the church-yard of Eltham. I symxDathized with this 
"sole survivor" of a family mourning over the grave of the 
faithful follower of his race, who had been, no doubt, a living 
memento of times and friends that had passed away ; and in 
considering this record of long and devoted service, I called to 
mind the touching speech of Old Adam, in "As You Like It,'' 
when tottering after the youthful son of his ancient master : 

" Master, go on, and I will follow thee 
To the last gasp, wltli love and loyalty 1" 

Note.— I cannot but mention a tablet which I have seen somewhere in the chapel 
of Windsor Castle, put up by the late kmg' to the memory of a family servant, vvuo 
had been a faithful attendant of his lamented daug-hter, 'the Priacef^.s Aiuelia. 
George III. possessed miicii of tlie stroDy" domestic feeling of the. old Sn,::^]!^-}! couu- 
try gentleman; and it is an incident curious in monjinontai histoiy. and cr^di-Rble 
to the human heart, a monarch erecting a monument in honour of ciio humble virtues 
ofameniaJ. 



THE WIDOW, 21 



THE WIDOW. 

She was so charitable and pitious 

She would weep if that she saw a mous 

Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled: 

Of small hounds fiad she, that she fed 

With rost flesh, milke, and wastel bread. 

But sore wept she if any of them were dead, 

Or if man smote them with a j-ard smart.— CHAUCKa. 

NoTWiTHSTANDiNa the whimsical parade made by Lady Lilly- 
craft on her arrival, she has noiio of the petty stateiiness that I 
had imagined ; but, on the contrary, she has a degree of nature 
and simple-heartedness, if I may use the phrase, that mingles 
well with her old-fashioned manners and harmless ostentation. 
She dresses in rich silks, with long waist ; she rouges consider- 
ably, and her hair, wliich is nearly white, is frizzed out, and 
put up with pins. Her face is pitted with the small-pox, but 
the delicacy of her features shows that she may once have been 
beautiful ; and she has a very fair and well-shaped hand and 
ai'm, of wliich, if I mistake not, the good lady is still a little 
vain. ,' 

I have had the curiosity to gather a few particulars concern- 
ing her. She was a great belle in town, between thirty and 
forty years since, and reigned for two seasons with all the mso- 
lence of beauty, refusing several excellent offers; when, un- 
fortunately, she wa.s rehired of her charms and her lovers by 
a.n attack of the small-pox. She retired immediately into the 
country, where she some time after inlierited an estate, and 
-married a baronet, a former admirer, whose passion had sud- 
denly revived ; " having, " as he said, "always loved her mind 
ratlier than her person. " 

The baronet did not enjoy her mind and fortune above six 
months, and had scarcely grown very tired of her, when he 
broke his neck in a fox-chase, and left her free, rich, and dis- 
consolate. She has remamed on her estate in the country ever 
since, and has never shown any desire to return to town, and 
revisit the scene of her early triiunphs and fatal malady. All 
her favourite recollections, liowever, revert to that short period 
of her youtiiful beauty. She has no idea of town but as it was 
at that time ; and continually forgets tliat the place and people 
must have changed materially in the course of nearly half a 
century. She will often speak of Vax' toasts of those days as if 



52 BEACEBIIWGE HALL. 

still reigning; and, until very recently, used to talk Avith delight 
of the royal family, and the beauty of the young princes and 
princesses. She cannot be brought to think of the present king 
otherwise than as an elegant young man, rather wild, but who 
danced a minuet divinely ; and before he CPtme to the crown, 
would often mention him as the "sweet young prince." 

She talks also of the walks in Kensington Garden, where the 
gentlemen appeared in gold-laced coats, and cocked hats, and 
the ladies in hoops, and sv/ept so proudly along the grassy 
avenues ; and she thinks the ladies let themselves sadly down 
in their dignity, when they gave up cushioned head-dresses, 
and high-heeled shoes. She has much to say too of the officers 
who were in the train of her admirers ; and spea^ks famiharly 
of many wild young blades, that are now, perhaps, hobbling 
about watering-]3laces with crutches and gouty shoes. 

Whether the taste the good lady had of matrimony discour- 
aged her or not, I cannot say ; but though her merits and her 
riches have attracted many suitors, she has never been tempted 
to venture again into the happy state. This is singular, too, 
for she seems of a most soft and susceptible heart ; is always 
talking of love and connubial felicity, and is a great stickler for 
old-fashioned gallantry, devoted attentions, and eternal con- 
stancy, on the part of the gentlemen. She lives, however, af tei- 
her own taste. Her house, I am told, must have been built and 
furnished about the time of Sir Charles Grandison : every thing 
about it is somewhat formal and stately ; but has been softened 
doAvn into a degree of voluptuousness, characteri^:tic of &n old 
lady, very tender-hearted and romantic, and that loves her 
ease. The cushions of tli^ great aim-chaifs, and wide sofas, 
almost bury you when you sit down on them. Flowers of the 
most rare and delicate kmd are placed about the rooms, and on 
little ja^panned stands; and sweet bags lie about the tables and 
mantel-pieces. The house is full of pet dogs, Angora cats, and 
singing birds, who are as carefully waited- upon as she is her- 
self. 

She is dainty in her living, and a little of an epicure, living f-ii 
white meats, a.nd httle lady-like dishes, though her servants 
have substantial old English fa.re, as tlieir looks bear witness. 
Indeed, they are so indulged, that they are all spoiled ; and 
when they lose their present place, they will be fit for no other. 
Her ladyship . is one of those easy-tempered beings that are 
always doomed to be much liked, but ill served by their domes- 
tics, and cheated l-y ail the world. 



THE WIDOW. oo 

>Iuch of her time is passed in reading novels, of which she 
has a most extensive hbrary, and has a 'constant supply froni 
the piibhshers in town. Her erudition in this line of Mterature 
is immense ; she has kept pace with the press for half a century. 
Her mind is stuffed with love-tales of all kinds, from tlie stately 
amours of the old books of chivalry, down to the last blue- 
covered romance, reeking from the press ; though she evidently 
gives the preference to those that came out in the days of her 
youth, and when she was first in love. She maintains that 
there are no novels written now-a-days equal to Pamela and Sir 
Chai4es Grandisvon ; and she places the Castle of Otranto at the 
head of all romances. 

She does a vast deal of good in her neighboui-hood, and is 
imposed upon by every beggar in the county. She is the bene- 
factress of a village adjoining to her estate, and takes an especial 
interest in all its love-affaii's. She knows of every courtship 
that is going on ; every lovelorn damsel is sui-e to find a patient 
listener and a sage adviser in her ladyship. She takes great 
pains to reconcile all love-quarrels, a-nd should any faithless 
swain persist in his inconstancy, he is sure to draw on himself 
the good lady's violent indignation. 

I have learned these particulars pai*tly from Frank Brace- 
bridge, and partly from Master Simon. I am now able to 
account for the assiduous attention of the latter to her lady- 
ship. Her house is one of his favourite resorts, where he is a 
very important personage. He makes her a visit, of 'business 
once a year, when he looks into all her affairs; v/hich, as she is 
no manager, are apt to get into confusion. He examines the 
books of the overseer, and shoots about the estate, which, he 
says, is well stocked with game, notwithstanding that it is 
poached by all the vagabonds, in the neighbourhood. 

It is thought, as I before hinted, that the captain will inherit 
the greater part of her property, having ahvays been her chief 
favourite ; for, in fact, she is partial to a red coat. She has no^v 
come to the Hall to be present at his nuptials, having a great 
dis]30sition to interest herself in all mattei^ of love and matri- 
mony. 



24 BBACEBRIBQE HALi 



THE LOVERS. 

Rise up, my love, my fair one, and corns away; fox', lo, the winter is past, the rain 
is over and gone; the flowers appear on tlie earth; tlie timo of the singing of birds 
iti come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in tiie land.— Song of Solomon. 

To a man who is a little of a philosopher, and a bachelor to 
boot ; and who, by dint of some experience in the follies of life, 
begins to look with a learned eye upon the ways of man, and 
eke of woman ; to such a man, I say, there is something very 
entertaining in noticing the conduct of a pair of young lovers. 
It may not be as grave and scientific a study as the loves of the 
plants, but it is certainly as interesting. 

I have, therefore, derived much pleasure, since my arrival at 
the Hall, from observing the fair Julia and her lover. She has 
all the dehghtf ul, blushing consciousness of an artless girl, inex- 
perienced in coquetry, who has made her first conquest ; while 
the capt?in regards her with that mixture of fondness and exul- 
tation with Yfhich a youthful lover is apt to contemplate so 
beauteous a prize. 

I observed them yesterday in the garden, advancing along 
one of the retired walks. The sun was shuiing with dehcious 
warmth, making gTeat masses of bright verdure, and deep blue 
sbade. The cuckoo, that "harbinger of spring," was faintly 
heard from a distance; the thrush piped from the hawthorn; 
and the yellow buttejrflies sported, and toyed, and coquetted in 
the air. 

The fair .Julia was leaning on her lover's arm, listening to his 
conversation, with her eyes cast down, a soft blush on her 
cheek, and a quiet smile on her Mps, while in the hand that 
hung neghg(!)ntly by her side was a bunch of flowers. In this 
v\^ay they were sauntering slowly along ; and when I considered 
them and the scene in wMch they were moving, I could not but 
think it a thousand pities that the season should ever change, 
or that young people should ever grow older, or that blossoms 
should give way to fruit, or that lovers should ever get mar- 
ried. 

Ii'om what I have gathered of family anecdote, I understand 
that the fair Julia is the daughter of a favourite college friend 
of the Squire; who, after leaving Oxford, had entered the army, 
and served for m.any years in India, where he was mortally 
wounded in a. skirmish with the natives. In his last moments 



THE LOVERS. 25 

he had, with a faltering pen, recommended his wile and daugli- 
ter to the kiiidness of his early friend. 

The widow and her child returned to England helpless and 
almost hopeless. When Mr. Bracebiidge received accounts of 
their situation, he hastened to their rehef. He reached them 
just in time to soothe the last moments of the mother, whowr.s 
dying of n. consumption, and to make her happy in the assur- 
ance that her child should never want a protector. 

The good Squire returned with his pratthng charge to liis 
8trong-ho>d, where he had brought her up with a tenderness 
truly paternal. As he has taken some pains to superintend her 
education, and form her taste, she has grown up with many of 
his notions, and considers him the wisest, as well as the best of 
men. Mucii of her time, too, has been passed with Lad}^ Liily- 
craft, who has instructed her in the manners of the old school, 
and enriched her mind with all kinds of novels and romances. 
Indeed, her ladyship has had a great hand in promoting the 
match between Juha and the captain, having had them together 
at her country-seat, the moment slie found there was an attach- 
ment growing up between them ; the good lady being never so 
happy as when she has a pair of turtles cooing about her. 

I have been pleased to see the fondne^ss with vv^hich the fair 
Julia is regarded by the old servants at the Hall. She has been 
a pot ^vith■ them from childhood, and every one seems to lay 
some claim to her education ; so that it is no wonder that she 
should be extremely accomplished. Tho gardener taught her 
to rear flowers, of which she is extremely fond. Old Christy, 
the pragmatical huntsman, softens when she approaches ; and 
as she sits lightly and gracefully- in her saddle, clamis the merit 
of having taught her to ride ; \Flnle the housekeeper, who almost 
looks upon her as a daughter, intimates that she first gave her 
an insight into the mysteries of the toilet, having been dressing- 
maid, in her young days, to the late Mrs. Bracebridge. I am 
inchned to credit this last claim, as I have noticed that the dress 
of the young lady had an air of the old school, though managed 
with native taste, and that her hair was put u]:> very much in 
the stylo of Bu^ Peter Leiy's portraits in the picture gallery. 

Her very musical attainments partake of this old-fashioned 
character, and most- of her songs are such as are not at the 
present day to be found on the piano of a modern performer. 
I have, however, seen so much of modern fashions, modern 
accomphshments, and modern fine ladies, that I relish this tinge 
of antiquated style in so young and lovely a girl ; and I have 



26 . BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 

had as mucii pleasure in hearing her warble one of the old songs 
of Herrick, or Oarew, or Suckling, adapted to some simple old 
melody, as I have had from listening to a lady amateur sky- 
lark it up and down through the finest bravura of Rossini or 
Mozart. ^ 

We have very pretty^ music in the evenings, occasionally, 
between her and -the captain, assisted sometimes by Master 
Simon, who scrapes, dubiously, on his violin; being very apt to 
get out, and to halt a note or two in the n^ar. Sometimes he 
even thrums a httle on the piano, and takes a. part in a trio, in 
which his voice can generally be distinguished by a certain 
quavering tone, and an occasional false note. 

I was praising the fair Julia's performance to him, after one 
of her songs, when I found he took to himself the whole credit 
of having formed her musical taste, assuring me that she was 
very apt^, and, indeed, summing up her whole character in his 
knowing way, by adding, that " she was a very nice girl, and 
had no nonsense about her." 



FAMILY RELIQUES. 

My Infeiice's face, her brow'. her eye, 

The dimple on her cheek: and such s'.reet skill 

Hath from the cvmiiing workman's pencil flown. 

These lips look fresh and lively as her own. 

False colom's last after the true be dead. 

Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks, 

Of all the graces dancing in her eyes, 

Of ail the music set upon her tongue, 

Of all that was past woman's excellence 

In her white bosom; look, a painted board 

Circumscribes all!— Dekker. 

An old English family mansion is a fertile subject for study. 
It abounds with illustrations of former times, and traces of the 
t^cstes, and humours, and ma,nners of successive generations. 
The alterations and additions, in different styles of architecture ; 
the furniture, plate, pictures, hangings ; the warlike and sport- 
ing implements of different ages and fancies ; all furnish food 
for curious and a,musing speculation. As the Squire is very 
careful in collecting and preserving all family reliques, the Hall 
is full of remembrances of the kind. In looking about the estab- 
lishment, I can picture to myself the characters and habits that 



FAMILY RH'LK^i'ES, 27 

have prevail'^d at different eras of the family history. I have 
mentioned, on a former occasion, the armour of the crusader 
which hangs up in the Hall. There are also several jack-boois, 
with enormously thick soles and high heels, that belonged to a set 
of cavaliers, who filled the Hall with the din and stir of arms 
during the time of the Covenantei'S. A number of enormous 
drinking vessels of antique fashion, with huge Venice glasses, 
and gi-een-hock-glasses, with the apostles in relief on them, 
remain as monuments of a generation or two of hard livers, 
that led a life of roaring revelry, and first introduced the gout 
into the family. 

J shall pass over several more such indications of temporary 
tastes of the Squire's predecessors; but I cannot forbear to 
notice a pau^ of antlers in the great hall, w^hich is one of the 
trophies of a hard-riding squire of form.er tunes, who was the 
Nimrod of these parts. There are many traditions of his won- 
derful feats in hunting still existing, v/hich are related by old 
Christy, the huntsman, who gets exceedingly nettled if they 
are in the least doubted. Indeed, there is a frightful chasm, 
a few miles from the Hall, which goes by the name of the 
Squire's Leap, from his having cleared it in the ardoiu^ of the 
cha*!e ; there can be no doubt of the fact, for old Christy shows 
the very dints of the horse's hoofs on the rocks on each side of 
the chasm. 

Master Simon holds the memory of this squire in great venera- 
tion, and has a number of extraordinary stories to tell concern- 
ing him, which he repeats at all hunting dinners; and I am 
told that they wax more and more marvellous the older they 
grow. He has also a pair of Eippon spurs which beiongod to 
this mighty hiuiter of'yoi'e, and which he only wears on par- 
ticular occasions. 

The place, however, which abounds most with mementos of 
past times, is the picture gallery; and there is something 
strangely pleasing, though melancholy, in considering tlie long 
rows of portraits which compose the greater part of the cc)lle<'- 
tion. They furnish a kmd of naiTative of the lives of the family 
worthies, which I am enabled to read with the assistance of the 
venerable housekeeper, who is the family clu'onicler, prompted 
occasionally by blaster Simon. There is the progress of a fine 
lady, for instance, through a variety of portraits. One repj'c- 
sents her as a little giil, with a long w^aist and hoop, hoidinp; a 
kitten in her arms and ogling the spectator out of the cornei-;; 
of her eves, as if she could not turn her head. In another, we 



28 BRACEBUWQE HALL. 

find her in the freshness of youthful beauty, when she was a 
celebrated belle, and so hard-hearted as to cause several unfor- 
tunate gentlemen to run desperate and write bad poetry. In 
another, she is depicted as a stately dame, in the maturity of 
her charms; next to the portrpat of her husband, a gallant 
colonel in full-bottomed wig and gold-laced hat, who was killed 
abroad ; and, finally, her moniunent is in the church, the spii-e 
of which may be seen from the window, where her efiigy is 
carved in marble, a,nd represents her as a venerable dame of 
seventy-pyix. 

In like manner, I have followed som.e of the family great men 
through a series of pictures, from early boyhood to the robe of 
dignity, or truncheon of command; and so on by degrees, 
imtil they were gai'nered up m the common repository, the 
neighbouring church. 

There is one group that particularly interested me. It con- 
sisted of four sisters, of nearly the same age, who flourished 
about a century since, a.nd, if I m.ay judge from their portraits, 
were extremely beautiful. I can imagine what a scene .of 
gayety and romance this old mansion must have been, when 
they were in the heyday of their charms ; vf hen they passed 
hke beautiful visions through its halls, or stepped daintily to 
music in the revels and dances of the cedar gallery ; or printed, 
with delicate feet, the velvet verdure of these lawns. ITow^ 
must they have been looked up to with mingled love, and 
pride, and reverence by the old family servants ; and followed 
with ahnost painful admiration by the aching eyes of rival 
admirers I How must melody, and song, and tender serenade, 
have breathed about these courts, and their echoes whispered 
to the loitering tread of lovers ! HoY^^ must these very turrets 
have made the hearts of the young galliards thrill, as they first 
discerned them from afar, rising from among- the trees, and 
pictm'ed to themselves the beauties casketed like gems within 
those walls ! Indeed, I hpvve discovered about the place several 
faint records of this reign of love and romance, when the Hah 
was a kind of Court of Beauty. 

Several of the old romances in the library have marginal 
notes expressing sympathy and approbation, where there are 
long speeches extolMng ladies' charms, or protesting eternal 
iidelitj^, or bewailing the cruelty of some tyrannical fair one. 
The iriterviews, and declarations, and parting scenes of tender 
lovers, also bear the marks of having been frequently read, 
and are scored and rnarkod Y/ith notes of admiration, and have 



. FAMILY nELJ(>i:K>^. 29 

initials written on the margins; most of -uiiich annotations 
have the day of the month and year annexed to them. Several 
of the windows, too, have scraps of poetry engraved on them 
with diamonds, taken from the writings of the fair ]\Irs. 
Phihps, the once celebrated Orinda. Some of these seem to 
have been inscribed by lovers ; and others, in a delicate and 
unsteady hand, and a little inaccurate in the spelling, have 
evidently been written by the young ladies themselves, or by 
female friends, who have been on visits to the Hall. Mrs. 
Philips seems to have been their favourite author, and they have 
distributed the nSmes of her heroes and heroines among their 
circle of intimo cy. Sometimes, in a male hand, the verse 
bewails the cruelty of beauty, and the sufferings of constant 
love; while in a female hand it prudishly confines itself to 
lamenting the parting of female friends. The bow- window of 
my bed-room, which has, doubtless, been inhabited by one of 
these beauties, has several of these inscriptions. I have one at 
this moment before my eyes, called " Camilla parting with 
Leonora:" 

" How perisli'd is the j/iy that's past, 
The present how unsteady I 
VvTaat comfort can be great and last, 
Whan this is gone ah'eady." 

^xid close by it is another, written, perhaps, by some adven- 
turous lover, who had stolen into the la^dy's chamber during 
her absence : 

*' THEODOSirs TO CAMILLA. 

rd rather in your favour live. 

Than in a lasting name; 
And much a greater rate would give 

For happiness tliau fame. 

THEODOSIT-S. 1700."" 

When I look at these faint recoi'ds of gallantry and tender- 
ness ; when I contemplate the fading portraits of these beauti- 
ful girls, and think, too, that they have long since bloomed, 
reigned, grown old, died, and passed away, and with them all 
their graces, their triumphs, their rivalries, their admirers ; the 
whole empire of love and pleasure in which they rrJed^"all 
dead, ail buried, all forgotten," I find a cloud of melancholy 
steshng over the present gayeties around me. I was gazing, 
in a musing mood, this very morning, at the portrait of the 
lady whose liusband was killed abroad, when the fair Julia 
encored the gallery, leaning on the arm of the captain. The 



go BR AC KB RIDGE HALL. 

sun shone through the row of ^vindows on her as she passed 
along, oand she seemed to beam out each time into brightness, 
a.nd relapse into shade, until the door at the bottom of the 
gallery closed after her. I felt a sadness of heart at the idea, 
that this was an emblem of her lot : a few more years of sun- 
shine and shade, and all this life and loveliness, and enjoyment, 
will have ceased, and nothing be left to commemorate this 
beautiful being but one more perishable portrait ; to awaken, 
perhaps, the trite speculations of some future loiterer, like 
myself, when I and my scribblings shall have lived through 
GUT brief existence, and been forgotten. 



ainF old soldier 

I've worn some leather out abroad; let out a heathen soul or two; fed this good 
s^^-ord with the black blood of pagan Christians; converted a few infidels with it.— 
But let that pass.— 27ie Ordinary. 

The Hall was thrown into some little agitation, a few days 
since, by the arrival of General Harbottle. He had been 
expected for several days, and had been looked for, rather 
impatiently, by several of the family. Master Simon assured 
me that I would like the general hugely, for he was a blade of 
the old school, and an excellent table companion. Lady Lilly- 
craft, also, appeared to be somewhat fluttered, on the morning 
of the general's arrival, for he had been one of her early admi- 
rers ; and she recollected him only as a dashing young ensign, 
just come upon the town. She actually spent an hour longer 
at her toilette, and made her appearance with her hair uncom- 
monly frizzed and powdered, and an additional quantity of 
rouge. She was evidently a little surprised and shocked, there- 
fore, at finding the lithe, dashing ensign transformed into a 
corpulent old general, mth a double chin; though it was a 
perfect picture to witness their s?Jutations; the graciousness- 
of her profound curtsy, ?.nd the air of the old school with which 
the general took off his hat, swp.yed it gently in his hand, and 
bowed his powdered head. 

'All this bustle and anticipation has caused me to study the 
general with a little more attention than, perhaps, I should 
otherwise have done ; and the few days that he has already 



Ali OLD .^()LDU:R. •>! 

passed at the Hall have enabled me, I think, to furnish a toler- 
able hkeness of him to the reader. 

He is, as Master Simon observed, a soldier of the old school, 
with powdered head, side locks, and pigtail. His face is shaped 
hke the stern of a Dutch man-of-war, narrow at top and wide 
at bottom, with full rosy cheeks and a double chin ; so that, to 
use the cant of the day, liis organs of eating may be said to bQ 
powerfully developed. 

The general, though a veteran, has seen very httle active 
service, except tiie taking of Seringapatam, wliich forms an 
era in his history. He wears a large emerald in his bosom, 
and a diamond on his fingei*, which he got on that occasion, 
and whoever is unlucky enough to notice either, is sure to 
involve hunself in the whole history of the siege. To judge 
from the general's conversation, the taking of Seringapatam is 
the most important affair that has occurred for the last 
century. 

On the approach of warHke times on the continent, he was 
rapidJy promoted to get him out of the way of younger officers 
of merit ; until, having been hoisted to the rank of general, he 
was quietly laid on the shelf. Since that time, his campaigns 
have been principally confined to v/atering-places ; where he 
drinks the waters for a slight touch of the liver which he got 
in India ; and plays whist with old dowagers, with whom he 
has flirted in his younger days. Indeed, he talks of all the fine 
Y/omen of the last half century, and, according to hints which 
he now and then drops, has enjoyed the particular smiles of 
many of them. 

He has seen considerable garrison duty, and can speak of 
almost every place famous for good quarters, and where the 
inhabitants give good dinners. He is a diner out of firsl-rrto 
currency, when in town ; being invited to one place, becniipjc 
he has been seen at another. In the same way he is invited 
about the country-seats, and can describe half the seats in the 
kingdom, from actual observation ; nor is any one better versed 
in court gossip, and the pedigrees and mtermarriages of th.o 
nobility. 

As the general is an old bachelor, and an old beau, and there 
are several ladies at the Hall, especialh^ Ms quondam flame 
Lady Jocelyne, he is put rather upon his gallantry-. He com- 
monly passes some time, therefore, at his toilette, and takes 
the field at a late hour every moiiiing, with his hair dressed 
out and powdered, and a rose in his button-hole. After he has 



39 BBACEBIUDGE HALL. 

breakfasted, he walks up and down the terrace in the sunshine, 
humming an air, and hemming between every stave, carrying 
one hand behind his back, and with the other touching his cane 
to the ground, and then raising it up to his shoulder. Should 
he. in these morning promenades, meet any of the elder ladies 
of the famJly, as he frequently does Lady Lillycraft, his hat is 
immediately in his hand, and it is enough to remind one of 
tliose courtly groups of ladies and gentlemen, in old prints of 
Windsor terrace, or Kensington garden. 

He talks frequently about '''ih.Q service," and is fond of hum- 
ming the old song, 

TMiy, soldiers, why, 

Should we be melancholy, hoy&l 

Why, soldiers, why, 

Whose business 't is to die! 

I cannot discover, however, that the general has ev^ run any 
great risk of dying, excepting from an apoplexy or an indiges- 
tion. He criticises all the battles on the continent, and discusses 
the merits of the commanders,^ but never fails to bring the 
conversation, ultimately, to Tippoo Saib and Seringapatam. I 
am told that the general was a perfect champion at drawing- 
rooms, parades, and watering-places, during the late war, and 
Tv^as looked to with hope and confidence by many an old lady, 
when labouring under the terror of Buonaparte's invasion. 

He is thoroughly loyal, and attends punctually on levees 
when in town. He has treasured up many remarkable sayings 
of the Late king, particularly one which the king made to him 
on a field-day, complimenting hun on the excellence of his 
horse. He extols the whole royal family, but especially the 
present king, whom he pronounces the most perfect gentleman 
and best whist-player in Europe. The general swears rather 
more than is the faslnon of the present day; but it was the 
mode in the old school. He is, however, very strict in religious 
matters, and a staunch chui-chman. He repeats the responses 
very loudly in church, and is emphaticai in praying for the 
Idng and royal family. 

At table, his loyeJty waxes very fervent with his second- 
bottle, and the song of ' ' God save the King" puts Mm into a 
perfect ecstasy. He is aniasingiy well contented with the 
present state of things, and ai^t to get a httle impatient at any 
talk about national ruin and agricultural distress. He says he 
has travelled about the country as much as any man, and has 
met with nothing but prosperity; and to confess the truth, a 



TllK WIDOW'S RETIAUK 33 

great part of his time is spent in visiting from one country-seat 
to another, and riding about the parks of liis friends. "They 
talk of pubhc distress," said the general this day to me, at 
dinner, as he smacked a glass of rich burgundy, and cast his 
ej-es about the ample board ; ' ' they talk of public distress, but 
where do we find it, sir? I see none. I see no reason why any 
ODe has to complain. Take my word for it, sir, this talk about 
pubhc distress is all humbug 1" 



- THE WIDOW'S RETINUE. 

Little dogs and all \—Lear. 

In giving an account of the arrival of Lady LiUycraft at the 
HaQ, I ought to have mentioned the entertainment which I 
derived from witnessing the unpacking of her carriage, and the 
disposing of her retinue. There is something extremely amus- 
ing to me in the number of factitious wants, the loads of 
imagmary conveniences, but real encmiibrances, with Vviiicli 
the luxurious are apt to burthen themselves. I like to watch 
the whimsical stir and display about one of these petty pro- 
gresses. The number of robustious footmen and retainers of 
all kinds bustling about, with looks of infinite gravity and im- 
portance, to do almost nothing. The number of heavy trunks, 
and parcels, and bandboxes belonging to my lady; and the 
solicitude exhibited about some humble, odd-looking box, by 
my lady's maid ; the cushions piled in the carriage to make a 
soft seat still softer, and to prevent the dreaded possibility of a 
jolt; the smelling-bottles, the cordials, the baskets of biscuit 
and fruit; the nev*'- publications ; all provided to giiard against 
hunger, fatigue, or ennui; the led horses, to vary the mode of 
travelhng ; and aU this preparation and parade to move, per- 
haps, some very good-for-nothing personage about a little space 
of earth ! 

I do not mean to apply the latter part of these observations 
to Lady LiUycraft, for vdiose simple kind-heartedness I have a 
very great respect, and who is really a most amiable and worthy 
being. I cannot refrain, however, from mentioning some of 
the motley retinue she has brought with her ; and "^vhich, in- 
deed, bespeak the overflowing kindness of her nature, wliich 
requires her to be surrounded with objects on which to lavish it. 



54 BBACEBUIDGK BALL. ^ 

In the first place, her ladyship has a pampered coachman, 

with a red face, and cheeks that hang down hke dew-laps. He 

evidently domineers over her a little with respect to the fat 

horses ; and only drives out when he thinks proper, and vf hen 

he thinks it will be "good for the cattle/' 

She has a favourite page, to attend upon her person ; a hand- 
some boy of about twelve years of age, but a mischievous var- 
iety very much spoiled, and in a fair way to be good for nothing. 
He is dressed in green, with a profusion of gold cord and gilt 
buttons about his clothes. She always has one or two attend- 
ants of the kind, who are replaced by others as soon as they 
grow to fourteen years of age. She has brought two dogs with 
her, also, out of a number of pets Vvdiich she maintains at home. 
One is a fat spa^niel, called Zephyr — though heaven defend me 
from such a zephyr ! He is fed out of all shape and comfort : 
his eyes are nearly strained out of his head ; he wheezes with 
corpulency, and cannot v/alk without great difficulty.. The 
other is a, little, old, gray-muzzled curmudgeon, with an un- 
happy eye, that kindles like a coal if you ©nly look at him ; his 
nose turns up ; his mouth is drawn into wrinkles, so as to show 
his teeth ; in short, he has altogether the look of a dog far gone 
in misanthropy, and totally sick of the world. When he 
walks, he has his tail curled up so tight that it seems to lift his 
feet from the ground ; and he seldom makes use of more than 
three legs at a time, keeping the other drpvwn up as a reserve. 
This last wretch is»called Beauty, 

These dogs are full of elegant ailments, unknown to vulgar 
dogs; and are petted and nursed by Lady LiUy craft with the 
tenderest kindness. They are pampered and fed with delica- 
cies by their f eRow-niinion, the page ; but their stomachs are 
often weak and out of order, so that they cannot eat ; though I 
have now and then seen the page give them a mischievous 
pinch, or thwack over the head, when his mistress was not by. 
They have cushions for their express use, on which they lie 
before the fire, and yet are apt to shiver and moan if there is 
the least draught of au-. When any one enters the room, they 
ma,ke a m.ost tyrannical barking that is absolutely deafening. 
They are insolent to all the other dogs of the establislmient. 
There is a noble stag-hound, a great favourite of the Squire's, 
who is a privileged visitisr to the parlour : but the moment he 
makes his appearance, these intruders fly at him ^vith furious 
rage ; and I have admired the sovereign indifference anxi con- 
tempt with which he seems to look down upon his puny assail- 



THE WIDOW'S METINUE. 

ants. When her ladyship drives out. these dogs are generally 
carried with her to take the air ; when they look out of each 
window of the carriage, and bark at all vulgar pedestrian dogs. 
These dogs are a continual source of misery to the household : 
as they are always in the way, they every now and then get 
their toes trod on, and then there is a yelping on their part, and 
a loud lamentation on the part of their mistress, that fills the 
room with clamour and confusion. 

Lastly, there is her ladyship's waiting-gentlewoman. Mrs. 
Hannah, a prim, pragmatical old maid; one of tlie most 
intolerable and intolerant virgins that ever lived. She has 
kept her virtue by her until it has turned sour, and now every 
word and look smacks of verjuice. She is the very opposite to 
her mistress, for one hates, and the other loves, all mankind. 
How they first came together I camiot imagine ; but they have 
lived together for many years ; and the abigail's temper being 
tart and encroaching, and her ladyship's easy and yielding, the 
former has got the complete upper hand, rmd tyrannizes over 
the good lady in secret. 

Lady Lillycraft now-and then complains of it, in great con- 
fidence, to her friends, but hushes up the subject immediately, 
if Mrs. Hannah makes her a.ppearance. Indeed, she has been 
so accustomed to be attended by her, that she tliinks she could 
not do without her ; though one great study of hen hfe, is to 
keep Mrs. Hannah in good-himiour, by little presents and kind- 
nesses. 

Master Simon has a most devout a^bhorrence, mingled with 
awe, for this ancient spinster. He told me the other da.y, in a 
whisper, that she was a cursed brimstone — in fact, he added 
another epithet, which I would not repeat for the world. I 
have remarked, hov/ever, that he is always extremely civil to 
her when they meet. 



BEACEBIUDGE HALL, 



READY-MONEY JACK. 

My purse, it Is my privy wyfe, 

This song I dare bqrh syng and say, 

It keepetli men from grievous stryfe 

When every ma.n for himself shaJl pay. 

As I ryde in lyche array 

For gold and silver men wyll me fioryshe; 

But thys matter J. dare -well saye, 

Every gramercy myne own purse.— P.ooA; of Hunting 

On" the skirts of the neighbouring village, there lives a kind of 
smaE potentate, who, for aught I know, is a representative of 
one of the most ancient legitimate lines of the present day ; for 
the empire over which he reigns has belonged to his family 
time out of mind. His territories comprise a considerable 
number of good fat acres ; and his seat of power is in an old 
farm-house, where he enjoys, unmolested, the stout oaken 
chair of his ancestors. The personage to whom I allude is a 
sturdy old yeoman of the name of John Tibbets, or rather, 
Ready-Money Jack Tibbets, as he is called throughout the 
neighbourhood. 

The first place where he attracted my attention was in the 
church-ysft'd on Sunday ; where he sat on a tombstone after the 
service, with his hat a httle on one side, holding forth to a 
smaU circle of auditors; and, as I presumed, expounding the 
law and the prophets ; until, on drawing a httle nearer, I found 
he was only expatiating on the merits of a brown horse. He 
presented so faithful a picture of a substantial English yeoman, 
such as he is often described in books, heightened, indeed, by 
some little finery, peculiar to himself, that I could not but take 
note of his whole appearance. 

He was between fifty and sixty, oi a strong, muscular frame, 
and at least six feet high, with a physiognomy as grave as a 
hon's, and set oif with short, curhng, iron-gra.y locks. His 
sliirt-collar w^as turned down, and displayed a neck covered 
with the same short, curling, gray hair; and he wore a coloured 
Bilk neckcloth, tied very loosely, and tucked in at the bosom, 
w4th a green paste brooch on the knot. His coat was of dark 
green cloth, with silver buttons, on each of which was engraved 
a stag, with bis own name, John Tibbets, underneath. He had 
an inner waistcoat of figured cMntz, between which and his 
coat was another of scarlet cloth, unbuttoned. Kis breeches 



READY-MOyET JACK. 37 

were also left unbuttoned at the l^nees, not from any sloven- 
liness, but to show a broad pair of scarlet garterc. His stock- 
ings were blue, with white clocks ; he wore large silver shoe- 
bucldes; a broad paste buckle in his hatbaixd ; his sleeve-buttons 
were gold seven-shilling pieces ; and he had two or thi-ee giimeas 
hanging as ornaments to his watch-chciin. 

On making some inquiries about him, I gathered that he v/as 
descended from a line of farmers, that had always lived on the 
same spot, and OAvned the same property ; and that half of t]io 
church-yard was taken up v/ith the tombstones of his race. He 
has all Ills life been an important character in the place. Wlien 
a youngster, he was one of the most roaring blades of the 
neighbourhood. No one could match liim at vv restiing, pitching 
the bai', cudgel play, and other atldetie exercises. Like the 
renowned Pumer of Wakefield, he vvas the village champion ; 
caiTied off the prize at ail the fairs, and threw his gauntlet at 
the countiy round. Even to this da 5^, the old people talk of his 
prowess, and undervalue, in comparison, all heroes of the green 
that have succeeded hiin ; nay, they say, that if Eeadj^-Money 
Jiack were to take the field even now, there is no one could 
stand before hun. 

When Jack's father died, the neighboui-s shook their heads, 
and predicted that young hopeful would soon make way with 
the old homestead ; but Jack falsified all their predictions. The 
moment he succeeded to the patenial farm, he assumed a new 
character; took a wife; attended resolutely to his affairs, and 
became an industrious, tliiifty farmer. With the family pro- 
perty, he inherited a set of old family maxims, to which he 
^tt^adily adhered. He saw to everytliing himself ; put his own 
hand to the plough; worked hard; ate heartily; slept soundly ; 
paid for every thing in cash down ; and never danced, except 
he coidd do it to the music of his own money in both pockets. 
He has never been without a himdred or two pounds in gold by 
him, and never allows a debt to stand unpaid. This has gained 
hun his current name, of which, by the hj, he is a liitle proud; 
and has cause;d him to be looked upon as a very v/ealthy man 
by all the village. 

Notwithstanding his thrift, however, he ha,s never denied 
himseif the amusements of life, but has taken a share in every 
passing pleasure. It is his maxim that ' '■ he that works hard 
can aff oi'd to play. *" He is, therefore, an attendant at all the 
country fairs and wakes, aiid has signalh^^ed himself by feats of" 
stj\:ngti^ and pro^rohs on over^- village gi-e^ji iii the bbire. lie 



38 BRAGEBBIDQE HALL, 

often jna;kes Ms appearance at horse-races, and sports Ms half- 
guinea, and even his guinea at a tinie ; keep^ a good horse for 
his own riding, and to tMs day is fond of following the hounds, 
and is generally in at the death. He keeps up the rustic 
revels, and hospitalities too, for which his paternal farm-house 
has always been noted ; has plenty of good cheer and dancing 
at harvest-home, and, above all, keeps the "merry night,"* as 
it is termed, at Christms^s. 

"With an Ms love of amusement, hov/ever, Jack is by no 
means a boisterous, jovial compamon. lie is seldom known to 
laugh even in the midst of his gayety; but mam tains the 
same grave, lion-Mke demeanour. He is very slow at compre- 
hending a joke; and is apt to sit puzzling at it with a perplexed 
look, while the rest of the company is m a roar. Tliis gravity 
has, pei'haps, grown on Mm^ith the growing weight of his 
character ; for he is gTaduaUy rising into pp.triarchal digmty 
in Ms native place. Tliough he no longer takes an active part 
in athletic sports, yet he always presides at them, and is ap- 
peal 3d to on all occasions as umpire. He maintains the peace 
on the village green at holiday games, and quells aU brawls 
and quarirels by collarii?g the parties and shakmg them heartily, 
11" refractory. No one ever pretends to raise a hand against 
him, or to contend agamst his decisions; the young men 
ho.ving grown up in habitual awe of Ms prowess, and in impM- 
cit deference to him as the champion and lord of the green. 

He is a regular frequenter of the YiR'Sige inn, the landlady 
having been a sweetheart of his in early life, and he having 
always continued on kind terms ^vith her. He seldom, how- 
ever, drmks any thing but a draught of ale ; smokes his pipe, 
and pays his reckoning before leaving the tap-room. Here he 
"gives his little senate laws;" decides bets, which are very gen- 
erally referred to him; determines upon the characters and 
qualities of horses ; and, indeed, plays now and then the part 
of a judge insettlmg petty disputes between neighbours, v^^Mch 
otherwise might have been nursed hj country attorneys into 
tolerable law-suits. Jack is very candid and impartial in his 
decisions, but he has not a head to carry a long argument, 
and is very apt to get perplexed and out of patience if there is 
much pleading. He generally breaks through the s^rgument 

* Mkrry Night— a rustic merry-making in a farm-house about Christmas, com- 
mon in some par-s of Yorkshire. There is abundance of homely fare, tea, cakes, 
fruit, nnd aie; various feats of afrilit3% amupin^ games, romping, dancing, and kiss- 
ing withal. They commonly break up at midnight. ; 



RRADT-MOyKY JACK. 39 

with a strong voice, and brings-, matters to a summary conclu- 
sion, by pronouncing what he calls the "upshot of the busi- 
ness," or, in other words, "the long and the short of the 
matter. " 

Jack once njade a journey to London, a gi'eat many years 
since, which has furnished him with topics of conversation 
ever since. He saw the old king on the terrace at Windsor, 
who stopped, and pointed hmi out to one of the princesses, 
being probably struclv with Jack's truly yeoman-like appear- 
ance. This is a favourite anecdote with him. and has no doabt 
had a great effect in making hun a most loyal subject ever 
since, in spite of taxes and poors' rates. He was also at Bar- 
tholomew fair, where he had half the buttons cut oif his coat ; 
and a gang of pick-pockets, attracted bj- liis extenud show of 
gold and silver, made a regular attempt to Imstle him as he v/as 
gazing at a show; but for once they found that they had 
caught a tartar ; for Jack enacted as great wonders among the 
^ang as Samson did among the Philistines. One of his neigh- 
bours, who had accompanied him to town, a.nd was with him at 
' the fair, brought back an account of his exploits, which raisod 
the pride of the whole village; who considered their champion 
as having subdued all London, and eclipsed the achievements 
of Friar Tuck, or even the renowned Eobin Hood himself. 

Of late years, the old fellow has begun to take the woiid 
easily ; he works less, and indulges in greater leisure, his son 
having grown up, and succeeded to him both in the labour,-3 of 
the farm, and the exploits of the green. Like all sons of dis- 
tinguished men, however, his father's renown is a disadvantage 
to liim, for he can never come up to public expectation. 
Though a fine active fellow of three-and-twenty, and quite the 
"cock of the walk," yet the old people declare he is nothing 
like what Ready-Money Jack was at his time of life. The 
youngster himself a^cknowledges his inferiority, and has a won- 
derful opinion of the old nian, who indeed taught him all his 
athletic accomplishments, and holds such a sway over him, 
that I am told, even to this day, he would have no liesitation 
to take him in hands, if he rebelled against paternal govern- 
ment. 

The Squire holds Jack in very high esteem, and shows him 
to aU his visitors, as a specimen of old English " heart of oak." 
He frequently caUs at his house, and tastes some of his home- 
brewed, which is excellent. He made Jack a present of old 
Tusser's "Hundred Points of good Husbandrie," wliich has 



40 BllArj^BlUDGE HALL. 

fiimished him with reading ever since, and is his text-book 
and manual in all agricultural and domestic concerns. He has 
made dog's ears-at the most favourite passages, and knows 
many of the poetical maxhus by heart. 

Tibbets, though not a man to be daunted or iiattered by high 
acquaintances ; and though he cherishes a sturdy independence 
of mind and manner, yet is evidently gratified by the atten- 
tions of the Squire, whom he has known irom boyhood, and 
pronounces ' ' a truegentleman every inch of him. " He is also on 
excellent terms with Master Smion, who is a kind of privy 
counsellor to the family ; but his great f avourit-e is the Oxonian, 
whom he taught to wrestle and play at quarter-staff when a 
boy, and considers the* most promising young gentleman in 
the whole country. 



BACHELOES. 



The Bachelor most joyfully 

In pleasaiit plight doth pass his daies, 

Goodfellowship and coinpanie 

He doth maintsia cind keep alwaies.— Even's Old, Ballads. 

There is no character in the comedy of human life that is 
more difficult to play well, than that of an old Bachelor. When 
a smgle gentleman, therefore, arrives at that critical period 
when he begins to consider it an impertinent question to be 
asked liis age, I would advise him to. look well to his ways. 
This period, it is true, is much later v/ith some men than with 
others ; I have witnessed more than once the m.eeting of two 
wrinkled old lads of this kind, who had not seen each other for 
several years, and have been amused hj the amicable exchange 
of compliments on each other's appearance, that, takes place on 
such occasions. There is always one invariable observation: 
" YTiiy, bless my soul ! you look younger than Y^^hen I last saw 
you !" Y/lienever a man's friends begin to compMment him 
about looking young, he may be sure that they tMnk he is 
growii^ old. 

I am led to make these remarks by the conduct of Master 
Simon and the general, who have become gTeat cronies. As 
the former is the younger by many years, he is regarded as 
quite a youthful blade by the generalj who moreover looks 



BACUELuJiS. 41 

upon him as a man of great wit and prodigious acquirements. 
I have already hinted that Master Simon is a family beau, and 
considered rather a young fellow by all the elderly ladies of the 
coimexion; for an old bachelor, m an old family connexion, is 
something like an actor in a regular dramatic coi'ps, who seems 
to " flourish in immortal youth," and Yv^ill continue to play the 
Eomeos and Rangers for half a century together. 

Master Simon, too, is a little of the chameleon, and takes a 
different hue with every different companion : he is very atten- 
tive and officious, and somewhat sentimental, with Lady Lilly- 
craft ; copies out little namby-pamby ditties and love-songs for 
her, and draws quivers, and doves, and darts, and Cupids, to 
be worked on the corners of her pocket-handkerchiefs. He 
indulges, however, in very considerable latitude with the other 
married ladies of the family ; and has many sly pleasantries to 
whisper to them, that provoke an equivocal laugh and a tap of 
the fan. But when he gets among young company, such as 
Frank feracebridge, the Oxonian, and the general, he is apt to 
put on the mad wag, and to talk in a very bachelor-like strain 
about the sex. 

In this he has been encouraged by the example of the general, 
whom he looks up to as a man who has seen the world. The 
ge7ieral, in fact, tells shocking stories after diimer, when the 
ladies have retired, which he gives as some of the choice things 
that are served up at the Mulligatawney club ; a knot of boon 
companions in London. He also repeats the fat jokes of old 
Major Pendergasfc, the wit of the club, and which, though the 
general can hardly repeat them for laughing, always make 
Mr. Bracebridge look grave, he having a great antipathy to an 
indecent jest. In a word, the general is a complete instance of 
the declension in gay life, by wliich a young man of pleasure is 
apt to cool down into an obscene old gentleman. 

I saw him and Master Simon, an evening or two since, con- 
versing with a buxom milkmaid in a meadow ; and from their 
elbowing ea,ch other now and then, and the general's shaking 
his shoulders, blowing up his cheeks, and breaking out into a 
short fit of m'epressible laughter, I had no doubt they were 
playing the mischief v/ith the girl. 

As I looked at them through a hedge, I could not but think 

they would have made a tolerable group for a modern picture 

of Susannah and the two elders. It is true, the girl seemed in 

nowise alarmed at the force of the enemy ; and I question, had 

• eithei* of them been alone, whether she would not have been 



49 . BRACEBBII>GE HALL. 

more than they would have ventured to encounter. Such vete- 
ran r oysters are daring wags when together, and will put any 
female to the blush with their jokes ; but they are as quiet as 
lambs when they fall singly into the clutches of a fine woman. 

In spite of the general's years, he evidently is a little vain of 
his person, and ambitious of conquests. I have observed him 
on Sunday in church, eyeing the country girls most suspicioiif-J:\- ; 
and have seen him leer upon them with a downright aniruTm^ 
look, even when he has been gallanting Lady Lillycraft, witli 
great ceremony, through the church-yard. The general, in 
fact, is a veteran in the ser^dce of Cupid, rather than of Mars, 
having signalized himself in all the garrison towns and country 
qua^rters, and seen service in every ball-room of England. Not 
a celebrated beauty but he has laid siege to ; and if his word 
may be taken in a matter wherein no man is apt to be over- 
veracious, it is incredible the success he has had with the fair. 
At present he is hke a worn-out warrior, retired from service ; 
but who still cocks his beaver with a military air, and talks j 
stoutly of fighting whenever he comes within the smell of gun- 1 
powder. ~ 

I have heard him speak his mind very freely over his bottle, 
about the folly of the captain in taking a wife ; as he thinks a 
young soldier should care for notliing but his ' ' bottle and kind 
landlady." But, in fact, he says the service on the continent 
has had a sad effect upon the young men; they have been 
ruined by light wines and French quadrilles. " They've noth- 
ing," he says, " oi' the spirit of the old service. There are none 
of your six-bottle men left, that were the souls of a mess dinner, 
and used to play the very deuce among the women." 

As to a bachelor, the general affirms that he is a free and easy 
man, with no baggage to take care of but his portmanteau ; but 
a married man, with iiis wife hanging on his arm, ahvays puts 
him in mind of a chamber candlestick, with its extinguisheir- 
hitched to it. I should not mind all this, if it were m.erely con- ■ 
fined to the general ; but I fear he will be 'the ruin of my friend, I 
Mristor Simon, who already be^^ins to echo his heresies, and to . 
talk in the style of a gentleman that has seen life, and livad 
upon the town. Indeed, the general seem_s to have taken 
Master Simon in hand, and talks of showing him the lions 
when he comes to town, and of introducing him to a knot of 
choice spii'its p.t the MulUgatawney club; v^hich, I understand, 
is composed of old nabobs, officers in the Company's employ, and 
other "men of Ind," that have seen service m the. East, and 



WI VES. 43 

returned jiomo burnt out with curry, and touched with the 
hver complaint. They have their regular club, where they eat 
MuUigatawney soup, smoke the hookah, talk about Tippoo 
Saib, Seringapatam, and tiger-hunting; and are tediously 
agreeable in each other's company. 



WIVES. 

Believe me, man, there is no greater blisse 

Than is tlic quiet joy of loTiiLc: \vife; 

"Which whoso wants, half of liiniselfe doth misse. 

Friend without change, plaj-fellow without strife, 

Food without fulnesse, counsaile wi'hout pride, 

Is this sweet doubling of our single life.— Sir P. Sidntct. 

There is so much talk about matrimony going on around me, 
in consequence of the approaching event for which we are as- 
sembled at the Hall, that I confess I find my thoughts singularly 
exercised on the subject. Indeed, ad the bachelors of the 
establishment seem to be passing through a kind of fiery 
ordeal ; for Lady Lillycraf t is one of those tender, romance- 
read dames of the old school, whose mind is filled with flames 
and darts, and who breathe nothing but constancy and wedlock. 
She is for ever im^mersed in the concerns of the heart ; and, to 
use a poetical phrase, is perfectly surrounded by ' * the purple 
light of love." The very general seems to feel the influence of 
this sentmiental atmospliere; to melt as he approaches her 
ladyship, and, for the time, to forget all his heresies about 
ma^trmiony and the sex. 

The good lady is generally surrounded by little documents of 
her pievalont taste; novels of a tender nature ; richly bound 
little books of poetry, that are filled with sonnets and love 
tales, and perfumed with rose-leaves ; and she has ahvays an 
album at hand, for which she claims 'the contributions of all 
her friends. On looking over this last repository, the other 
day, I found a series of poetical extracts, in llic Squire's hand- 
writing, which might have been intended as matrimonial hints 
to his ward. I was so much struck with several of them, that 
I took the liberty of copying them out. They are from the old 
play of Thomas Davenport, published in 1661, entitled "The 
City Night-Cap ;" in v>^hich is drawn out and exemplified, in 
the paii; of Abstemia, the character of a patient and faithful 



44 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 

"wife, whicli, I think, ixdght vie with that of the renowned 
Griselda. 

I have often thought it a pity that plays and novels should 
always end at the wedding, and should not ^Itq us another act, 
and another voliime, to let us knov/ how the hero and heroine 
conducted themselves vdien married. Their main object seems 
to be mereij^ to instruct young ladies how to get husbands, but 
not how to keep them: now this last, I speak it witij all due 
diffidence, appears to me to ])e a desideratum in modern mar- 
ried life. It is appalling to those who have not yet adventured 
into the holy state, to see hovf soon the flame of romantic love 
burns out, or rather is quenched in matrimony; and how 
deplorably the passionate, poetic lover declines into the phleg- 
m.atic, prosaic husband. I am mclined to attribute tliis very 
much to the defect just mentioned in the plays and novels, 
which form so hnportant a branch of study of our youn^ ladies ; 
and which teach them how to be heroines, but leave them 
totally at a loss when they come to be wives. The play from 
wliich the quotations before me were made, however, is an ex- 
ception to tliis remark ; and I cannot refuse mj^-self the pleasure 
of adducing some of them for the benefit of the reader, and for 
the honour of an old writer, who has bravely attempted to 
awaken driimatic interest in favour of a woman, even after she 
was married ! 

The following is a commendation of Abstemia to her husband 
Lorenzo : 

She's modest, but not sullen, and loves silence; 

Not that she wants apt words, (for when she speaks, 

She inflames love with wonder,) but because 

She calls vv^ise silence the soul's harmony. 

She's truly chaste; yet such a foe to coyness, 

The poorest call her courteous; and which is excellent, • 

(Though fair and young) she shuns to expose herself 

To the- opinion of sti-ange ej^es. She either seldom 

Or never vv-alks abroad but in your company, 

And then wir.h such sweet bashfulness, as if 

She were venturing on crack'd ice, and takes delight 

To step into the print 3-our foot hath made. 

And will follow you whole fields; so she will drive 

Tediousuess out of time, with iier sweet character. 

Notwithstanding all this excellence, Abstemia has the mis- 
fortune to incur the unmerited jealousy of her husband. In- 
stead, however, of resenting his hp„rsh treatment vvith clamor- 
ous upbraidings, and with the stormy ^aolence of higii, windy 
vh'tue. by which the sparks of anger are so often blown into a 



Wl VKS. 4o 

liame, she endures it Avitli the meekness of conscious, but 
patient, virtue ; and makes the following beautiful appeal to a 
friend Tv'ho has witnessed her long suiiiering: 

fiast thou not seen uie 

r>ear all bis injuries, as the octan suffers 

Tlie au;?ry bark to plougii tlv.-ough her bosom. 

And yet is presently so smooth, the eye 

Ciimiot perceive wliere the wide wound was made? 

Lorenzo, being wrought on by false representations, at length 
repudiates her. To the last, however, she maintains her 
patient sweetness, and her love for him, in spite of his cruelty. 
She deplores his error, even more than his unkindness; and 
laments the delusion which has turned his very alEcction into 
a source of bitteiness. There is a moving pathos in her pai'ting 
address to Lorenzo, after their divorce : 

— — Farewell, Lorenzo, 
Whom my soii doth love: if you e'er marry, 
May you meet a good wife; so good, that you 
•Maj' not suspect her, nor may she be worthy 
Of yom suspicion; and if you hear hereafter 
That I am dead, inquire but my last words, 
And you shall know that to the last I lov'd you. 
And wheu you walk forth with your second choice 
Into the pleasant fields, and by chance talk of me, 
Imagine that you see me, lean and pale, 

Su'ewiu'- your path with flowers. 

But may she never live to pay my debts: {weeps) 

If but in thought she wrong you, may she die 

In the conception of the injury. 

Praj' make me wealth^' with one kiss: farewell, sir: 

Iset it not grieve jow when you shall remember 

That 1 v/-as innocent: nor this forget, 

Though innocence here suffer, sigh, and groan, 

She walks but thorow thorns to find a throne. ' 

In a short time Lorenzo discovers liis error, and the inno- 
cence of his injured wife. In the transports of his repentance, 
he calls to mind all her feminine excellence ; her gentle, uncom- 
plaining, womanly fortitude imder.v/rongs anri sorrows: 

Oh, Abstemia! 

How lovely thou lookest now! now thou appearest 
> Chaster than is the morning's modesty 

That i-ises \^ith a blush, over whose bosom 
The western \y\vA creeps softly; new I remember 
now, when she sat at table, her obedient eye 
"Would dwell on mine, as if it wore not well. 
Unless it look'd where I look'd: oh how proud 
She was, v/hen she could cross her.^elf to please me! 
But where now is this fair soul ? Like a silver cloud 
She hath wept herself, I fear, into the dead sea. 
And will bo found no more, 



46 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 

It is bnt doing riglit by the reader, if interested in the fate of 
Absteniia by the preceding extracts, to say, that she was re-, 
stored to the arms and affections of her husband, rendered 
fonder than ever, by that disposition in every good heart, to 
atone for past injustice, by an overflowing measure of retum- 
ing kindness : 

Thou wealth, worth more than kingdoms; I am now 

Confirmed past all suspicion ; thou art far 

Sweeter in thy sincere truth than a sacrifice 

Deck'd up for death with g£uiaiids. The Indian winds 

That blow from off the coast and cheer the sailor 

With the sweet savour of their spices, want 

The delight flows in thee. 

I have been more affected and interested by this httle drama- 
tic picture, than by many a popular love tale; though, as I 
'-aid before, I do not think it hkely either Abstemia or patient 
Grizzle stand much chance of being taken for a model. Still I 
like to see poetry now and then extending its ^aev/s beyond the 
wedding-day, and teaching a lady how to make herself attrac- 
tive even after marriage. There is no great need of enforcing 
on an unmarried lady the necessity of being agreeable ; nor is 
there any great art requisite in a youthful beauty to enable her 
to laiease. Nature has multiplied attractions around her. 
Youth is in itself attractive. The freshness of budding beauty 
needs no foreign aid to set it off ; it pleases merely because it is 
fresh, and budding, and beautiful. But it is for the married 
state that a woman needs the most instruction, and in which 
she should be most on her guard to mamtain her powers of 
pleasing. No woman can expect to be to her husband all that 
he fancied her when he was a lover. Men are alvf ays doomed 
to be duped, not i.o much by the arts of the sex, as by their own 
imaginations. They are always wooing goddes!?(\-i, and marry- 
ing mere mortals. A woman should, therefore, aECOitain whp.t 
was the charm that rendered her so fascinating when a girl, 
and endeavour to keep it up when she has become a wife. One 
grerit thing undoubtedly was, the chariness of herself, and her 
conduct, which an unmarried fem?Je always observes. Slio 
should maintain the same niceness and reserve in her ]3erson 
and habits, and endeavour still to preserve a freshness and 
virgin delicacy in the eye of her husband. She should remem- 
ber that the province of woman is to be wooed, not to woo ; to 
be caressed, not to caress. Man is an ungrateful being in love ; 
bounty loses insteeid of winning him. Jhe secret of a woman's 
power does not consist so much in giving, as in withholding. 






STORY TELLING. 47 

A woman may give up too much even to her husband. It is to 
a thousand Httle delicacies of conduct that she must trust to 
keep alive passion, and to protect herself from that dangerous 
faniiliarity, that thorough, acquaintance with everj' weakness 
and imperfection incident to matrimony. By these means she 
Imay still maintain her power, though she has surrendered her 
poreon. and may continue the romance of love even beyond the 
honeymoon. 

- "She that hath a wise husband," says Jeremy Taylor, 
"must entice Mm to an eticrnal dearnesse by the veil of mod- 
esty, and the grave robes of cliastit^^, the ornament of meek- 
ness, and the jewels of faith and charity. She must have no 
painting but blushings ; her brightness must be purity, and she 
must shine round about witi' sweetness and friendship: and 
she shall be pleasant while she lives, and desired when she 
diet;.' 

I have wandered into a rambling series of remarks on a trite 
subject, and a dangerous one f^r a bachelor to meddle with. 
That I may not, however, appear to confine my observations 
entirely to the wife, I Tvill conclude with another quotation 
from Jeremy Taylor, in which " the duties of both parties are 
mentioned; while I would recommend liis sermon on the mar- 
riage-ring to all those who, A^riser than myself, are about 
entering the happy state of wedlock. 

" There is scarce any matter of duty but it concerns them 
both alike, and is only distinguished by names, and hath its 
variety by circumstances and httle accidents : and what ivi. one 
is called love, in the other is called reverence; and Vvhat in the 
wife is obedience, the same in the man is duty. He provides, 
and she dispenses ; he gives commandments, and she rules by 
them ; he rules her by authority, and she rules him by love ; 
she ought by all means to please Mm, Vmd he must by no 
means displease her." 



STORY TELLING. 



A FAVOURITE evening pastime at the HaU, and one which the 
worthy Sqmre is fond oi promoting, is story telhng, " a good, 
old-fashioned fire-side amusement," a^s he terms it. Indeed, 
i believe he promotes it, chiefly, because it was one of the 
choice recreations m those days of yore, when ladies and ^^n" 



48 BEAGEBBIDQE HALL. 

tlemen were not much in the habit of reading. Be this as it 
m^y, he will often, at supper-table, when conversation flags, 
call on some one or other of the company for a story, as it was 
formerly the custom to call for a song; and it is edifying to see 
the exemplary patience, and e^en satisfaction, with which the 
good old gentleman wiU sit and hsten to some hackneyed tale 
•■ hat he has heard for at least a hundred times. 

In this way, one evening, the current of anecdotes and stories 
ran upon mysterious personages that have figured at different 
times,. and filled the world with doubt and conjecture; such as 
the ¥7andering Jew, the Man with the Iron Mask, who tor- 
mented the curiosity of all Europe ; the Invisible Girl, and last, 
though not least, the Pig-faced Lady. 

At length, one of the company was called upon that had the 
most unpromismg physiognomy for a story teller, that ever 
I had seen. He was a thin, pale, weazen-faced man, extremely 
nervous, that bad sat at one corner of the table, shrunk up, as 
it were, into himself, and almost swallowed up in the cape of 
his coat, as a turtle in its shell. 

The very demand seemed to throw him into a nervous agita- 
tion ; yet he did not refuse. He emerged his head out of his 
shell, made a few odd grimaces and gesticulations, before he 
could get his muscles into order, or Ms voice under command, 
and then offered to give some account of a mysterious person- 
age that he had recently encountered in the course of his trav- 
els, and one whom ne thought fully entitled to being classed 
with the Man with the Iron Mask. 

I ^7as so much struck with his extraordinary narrative, that 
I lia^e written it out to the best of my recollection, for the 
amusement of the reader. I think it has in it all the elements 
of that mysterious and romantic narrative, so greedily sought 
after at the present day. 



THE STOUT GENTLErviAN. 

A STAGE-COACn ROMANCE. 
" I'll cross it, though it blast me V— Hamlet. 

It was a rainy Sunday, in the gloomy montlx of November. 
I had been detainp^. -in the ocursc of a jouni^y, by a slight 
indispositioij, fi--?i;a wliicli I w;^::; reeovcriiij^: but I was stilJ 



THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 49 

feverish, and was obliged to keep within dooi^s all day, in an inn 
of the small town of Derby. A wet Sunday in a country inn I 
— whoever has had the luck to experience one can alouo judge 
oi; my situation. The rain pattered against the casements ; the 
boils tolled for church with a melancholy sound. I went to 
the windows, in quest of something to amuse the eye ; but it 
seemed as if 1 had been placed completely out of the reach of 
all amusement. The windows of my bed-room locked out 
among tiled roofs and stacks of chimneys, while those of my 
sitting-room commanded a full view of the stable-yard. I 
know of nothing more calculated to make a man sick of 
this world, than a stable-yard on a rainy day. The place was 
littered with wet straw, that had been kicked about by travel- 
lers and sta]:>]e-boys. In one corner was a stagnant pool of 
water, surrounding an island cf muck; there were several 
half-drowned fowls crowded together imder a cart, among 
which was a miserable, crest-fallen cock, drenched out of all 
life and spuit ; his drooping tail matted, as it were, into a sin- 
gle feather, along which the water trickled from his back ; near 
the cart was a half-dozing cow chewing the cud, and standing 
patiently to be rained on, with w^reatbs of vapor rising from 
her reeking hide ; a wall-eyed horse, tired of the lonelmess of 
the stable, was poking his spectral head out of the window, 
with the rain dripping on it from the eaves ; an unhappy cur, 
chained to a dog-house hard by, uttered something everj- now 
and then, between a bark and a yelp; a drab of a kitchen- 
wench tramped backv/ards and forwards thiough the yard in 
pattens, looking as sulky as the weather itseK; every thing, in 
short, was comfortless a?ad forlorn, excepting a crew of hard- 
drinking ducks, assembled like boon companions roimd a pud- 
dle, and making a riotous noise over their liquor. 

I was lonely and listless, and wanted amusement. My room 
soon became insupportable. I abandoned it, and sought what 
is technically called the travellers'-room. This is a pubric 
room set apart at most inns for the accommodation of a class 
of wayfarers called travellers, or riders ; a kind of commercial 
knights-errant, who are incessantly scouring the Idngdom in 
gigs, on horseback, or by coach. They are the only successors 
that I knovf of. at the present day, to the knights-errant of 
yore. They lead the same kind of roving adventurous life, only 
changing the lance for a driving-vv^hip, the buckler for a pat- 
tern-cn,rd, and tiie coat of mail for an upper Benjamin. Instead 
'>f vindirMting the charms of prcrless hcn^^^x-. t'^ov r->vc oIxmiI 



50 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 

Spreading the fame and standing of some substantial trades^ 
man or maniif acturer, and are ready at any time to bargain in 
his name ; it being the fashion now-a-days to trade, instead of 
fight, with one another. As the room of the hotel, in the good 
old fighting times, would be hung round at night with the 
armour of wayworn warriors, such as coats of mah, falchions, 
and yawning helmets: so the traveF-ars'-room is garnished 
with the harnessing of their successors, with box-coats, whips 
of all kinds, spurs, gaiters, and oil-cloth covered hats. 

I was in hopes of finding some of these wortiiies to talk with, 
but was disappointed. There were, indeed, two or three in the 
room; but I could make nothing of them. One was just fin- 
ishing his breakfast, quarreihng with his bread and butter, and 
huffing the waiter; another buttoned on a pair of gaiters, with 
many execrations at Boots for not having claaned his shoes 
weU ; a third sat droimning on the table with his fingers, and 
looking at the rain as it streamed down the window-glass ; they 
all appeared infected by the weathei , and disappeared, one 
after the other, Avithout exchanging a word. 

I sauntered to the window, and stood gazing at the people 
pickmg their way to church, with petticoats hoisted mid-leg 
high, and dripping umbrellas. The bell ceased to toU, and the 
streets became silent. I then amused myself with watching 
the daughters of a tradesman opposite ; who, being conficed to 
the house for tear of wetting their Sunday finery, played off 
their charms at the front v/indows, to fascinate the chan^.e 
tenants of th.Q inn. They at length were summoned away by a 
vigilant vinegar-faced mother, and I had nothing further from 
without to amuse me. 

Whr^t was I to do to pass away the long-lived day? I was 
sadly nervous and lonely ; and every thing about an inn seems 
calculated to make a dull day ten times duller. Old news- 
papers, smelling of beer and tobacco-smoke, and which I had 
already read half-a-dozen times — good-for-nothing books, that 
were worse than ramy weather. I bored myself to death ^vith 
an old volume of the Lady's Magazine, I read all the common- 
placed names of ambitious travellers sci^wled on the panes of 
glass ; the eternal f amihes of the Smiths, and the Browns, and 
the Jacksons, and the Johnsons, and ail the other sons ; and I 
deciphered several scraps of fatigTung inn-window poetry which 
I lia.-\-e met with in all parts of the v/orld. 

The day continued lowering and gloomy; the sIovodIv, 
ragged, spongy clouds drifted hea^dly along; thero was no 



THE STOUT GEJSTLEMAN. 51 

variety even in the rain : it Avas one dull, continued, monoto- 
nous patter — patter — patter, excepting that now and then I was 
enlivened by the idea of a brisk shower, from the rattling of 
the drops upon a passing umbrella. * 

It„was quite refreshing (if I may be allowed a hackneyed 
phrase of the day) when, in the cou^'se of the morning, a hoiii 
blew, and a stage-coach whirled through the street, with out- 
side passengers stuck all over it, coweiing under cotton um- 
brellas, and seethed together, and reeking with the steams of 
wet box-coats and upper Benjamins. 

The sound brought out from their lurking-places a crew of 
vagabond boys, and vagabond dogs, and the carroty-headed 
hostler, and that nondescript animal ycleped Boots, and all the 
other vagabond race that infest the purlieus of an inn ; but the 
bustle was transient ; the coach again whirled on its way ; and 
boy and dog, and hostier and Boots, all slunk back again to 
their holes ; the street again became silent, and the ram con- 
tinued to rain on. In fact, there was no hope of its clearing 
up; the barometer pointed to rainy weather; mine hostess' 
tortoise-shell cat sat by the fire washing her face, and rubbing 
her paws over her cars ; and, on referring to the almanac, I 
found a direful prediction stre^'^^ching from the top of the page 
to tha bottom through the wh' Je month, '' expect — much — rain 
— about — ^tliis — time. " 

I was dreadfully hipped. The hours seemed as if they would 
never creep by. Tlio very ticking of the clock l^ecame irk- 
some. At leng+h the stillness of the hoTise was interrupted by 
the ringing of a bell. Shortly arter, I heard tlie voice of a 
waiter at the bar: "The stout gentleman in No. 13 wants his 
brea,kf ast. Tea and bread and butter with ham and eggs ; the 
eggs not to be too much done." 

Ill such a situation as mine, every incident is of importance. 
Here was a subject of speculation presented to my mind, and 
ample exorcise for my imagination. I am prone to paint pic- 
tures to myself, ^nd on this occasion I had some materials to 
work upon. Had the guest up-stairs been mentioned as Mr. 
Smith, or Mr. Brown, or Mr. Jackson, or Mr. Johnson, or 
merely as "tlio gentleman in No. 13," it woidd have been a 
perfect blank to riie. I bIiouM have tliought nothing of it ; bi it 
"The stout gentleman i"— the very name had something in it 
of the picturesque. Ic at once gave the size; it embodied the 
pereonage to my mind's eye, and my fancy did the rest. 

He was r-tout, or, r.s some term it, lusty; in all probabiUty, 



52 BUAOEBBIubtE HALL. ' 

tlierefore, he was advanced in life, some people expanding as 
they grow old. By his breakfasting rather late, and in his 
own room, he must he a man accustomed to live at his ease, 
and above the necessity of early rising ; no doubt a round, rosy, 
lusty old gentleman. 

There was another violent ringing. The stout gentleman 
was impatient for iiis breakfast, lie was evidently a man of 
importance; "well-to-do in the ^\orId;" accustomed to be 
promptly waited upon; of a keen appetite, and a httle cross 
when hungry; " perhaps, " thought I, "he maybe some Lon- 
don Alderman ; or who kno\^s but he mny be a Member of 
Parhament?" 

The breakfast vv-as sent up and there was a short interval of 
silence; ho was, doubtless, making the tea. Presently there 
was a violent ringing, and before it could be answered, another 
rmging stili more ^dolent. ''Bless me! what a choleric old 
gentleman!" The waiter came down in a huff. The butter 
was rancid, the eggs were overdone, the ham Avas too salt ; — 
the stout gentleman was evidently nice in his eating; one of 
those who ea,t and growl, antl keep the -v^^aiter on the trot, and 
hve in a state militant v/ith the household. 

The hostess got into a Jume. I sliould observe that ghe was 
a brisk, coquettish woman; little of a shi'cw, and something 
of a slammcrkin, but very pretty withal ; with a nincompoop 
for a husband, as shrews cire apt to have. She rated the ser- 
vants roundly for theuvnegligenco in. sendir ' up so bad a 
breakfast, but said not a word against the stout gentleman; by 
which I clearly perceived that he must be a man of conse- 
quence, entitled to make a noise and to give trouble at a coun- 
tTy inn. Other eggs, and ham, and bread and butter, v/ere 
sent up. They appeared to be more graciously received; at 
least there was no., further complamc. 

I had not made many turns about the travellers'-room, when 
there was another ringing. Shortly afterwards there was a 
stir and an inquest about the house. The ^tout gentleman 
wanted the Times or the Chronicle newspaper. I set him 
down, therefore, for a whig; or rather, from his being so abso- 
lute and lordly where he had a chance, I suspected him of 
being a radical. Hunt, I had lieard, was a large man; " who 
knows," thought I, " but it is Hunt liunself 1" 

My curiosity began to be awakened. I inquired of the waiter 
who was this stout gentleman that was making all this stir; 
but I could J^et no information: nobody seemed to know his 



THK ST0U2' GENTLEMAN. 53 

name. The landlords of bustling inns seldom trouble their 
heads about the names or occupations of their transient guests. 
The colour of a coat, the shape or size of the person, is enough to 
suggest a travelling* name. It is either the tall gentleman, pr 
the short gentleman, or tlie gentleman in black, or the gentlr- 
man m snuff-colour ; or, as in the present instance, the stout 
gentleman. A designation of the kind once hit on answers 
every purpose, and saves ail fuilher inquiry. 

Rain — rain — rain ! pitiless, ceaseless rain ! No such thing as 
putting a foot out of doors, and no occupation nor amusement 
witMn. By and by I heard some one v/aiking overhead. It 
was in the stout gentleman's room. He evidently \vas a large 
man, by the heaviness of his tread ; and an old man, from his 
wearing such creaking solos. "He is doubtless," thought I, 
*'some rich old square-toes, of regular habits, and is now tak- 
ing exercise after breakfast." 

I now read all the advertisements of coaches and hotels that 
were stuck about the mantel-piece. The Lady's Magazine had 
become an abomination to me ; it was as tedious as the day it- 
self. I w^andered out, not knowing w hat to do, and ascended 
again to myroom. I had not been there long, when there v.'^as 
a squall from a neighbouring bed-room. A door opened and 
slammed violently; a chamber-maid, that I had remarked for 
having a ruddy, good-humoured face, went down-stairs in a 
violent flurry. The stout gentleman had been rude to her. 

This sent a w^hole host of my deductions to the deuce m a 
moment. This unknown personage could not be ^.n old gentle- 
man ; for old gentlemen are not apt to be so obstreperous to 
chamber-maids. He could not be a young gentleman: for 
young gentlemen are not apt to inspire such indignation. Ho 
must be a middle-aged man, and confounded ugly into the 
bargain, or the girl would not ho.vc taken the matter in such 
terrible dudgeon. I confess I was sorely puzzled. 

In a few minutes I heard tlie voice of 7iiy landlady. I caught 
a glance of her as "she came tramping up-stairs ; her face 
glowing, her cap flaring, her tongue wagging the whole way. 
'* ShL''d have no such doings in her house, she'd warrant! If 
gentlemen did spend money freely, it was no rule. She'd have 
Bo servant maids of hers treated in that way, Avhen they were 
abcut their work, that's what she wouldn't!" 

As I hate squabbles, particularly with women, and above all 
with pretty women, I slunk back into my room, and partly 
dosed the door ; but my curiosity was too much excite not to 



54 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 

listen. Tlie landlady marched intrepidly to the enemy's citar 
del, and entered it with a storm: the door closed, after her. I 
heard her voice in high ivindy clamour for a moment or two. 
•pien it gradually subsided, like a gust of wind in a garret ; 
then there was a laugh ; then I heard nothing more. 

After a Httle while, my landlady came out with an odd smile 
on her face, adjusting her cap, which was a httle on one side. 
As she went down-stau^s, I heard the landlord ask her what 
was the matter; she said, "Nothing at all, only the girFs a 
fool." — I was more than ever perplexed what to make of this' 
imaccountabie personage, who could put a good-natured cham- ' 
ber-maid in a passion, and send away a termagant landlady in : 
smiles. He could not be so old, nor cross, nor ugly cither. 

I had to go to work at liis picture again, and to paint him ! 
entirely diiferent. I now set iiim down for one of those stout 
gentlemen tliat are frequently met with, swaggering about the 
doors of country inns. Moist, merry fellows, in Belcher hand- 
kerchiefs, whose bulk is a little assisted by malt liquors. Men 
who have seen the world, and been swoni at Highgate ; who 
are used to tavern life ; up to all the tricks of tapsters, and 
knovring in the ways of sinful publicans. Free-livers on a 
small scale ; who are prodigal within the compass of a guinea ; 
who call all the waiters by name, touzle the maids, gossip mth 
the landlady at the bar, and prose over a pmt of port, or a 
glass of negus, after dinner. 

The morning wore away in forming of these and shnilar 
surmises. As fast as I v/ove one system ^f belief, some move» 
ment of the unknown would completely overturn it, and throw 
all my thoughts again into confusion. Such are the sohtary 
operations of a feverish mind. I was, as I have said, extremely 
nervous ; and the continual meditation on the concerns of this 
mvisible personage began to have its effect : — I was getting a 
fit of the fidgets. 

Dinner-time came. I hoped the stout _gentleman might dine 
in the travellers'-room; and that I might at length get a vie^v^ 
of his person ; but no— he had dinner served in his own room. 
What could be the meaning of tliis solitude and mystery? He 
couid not be a radical ; there' was something too aristocratical 
in thus keeping himself a.part from the rest of the_worid, and 
condemning Mmsclf to his own dull company throughout a 
rainy day. And then, too, he lived too well for a discontented 
politician. He seemed to expatiate on a variety of dishes, and 
to sit over his wine like a jolly friend of good living. Indeed, 



THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 5^ 

Itny doubts on tliis head were soon at an end ; for lie could not 
have finished liis first bottle before I could famtly hear Imn 
humming a tune; and on listening, I found it to be "God savo 
ibhc King." 'Twas plain, then, he was no radical, but a faith- 
iCul subject; one that grew loyal over his bottle, and was ready 
to vstand by king and constitution, when he could stand by 
nothing else. But who could he be? My conjectures began to 
inni wild. Was he not some personage of distinction, trav^cl- 
jlhig incog. ? " God knows !" said I, at my writ's end; "it may 
Ibe one of the royal family for aught I know, for they are all 
jstout ft-entlemen I" 

I The weather continued rainy. The mysterious unknown 
kept his room, and, as far as I could judge, liis chair, for I did 
|aot hear him move. In the meantime, as the day advanced, 
Ibhe travellers'-room began to be frequented. Some, who had 
ijust arrived, came m buttoned up in box-coats; others came 
jhome, who had been dispersed about the town. Some took 
itheir dinners, and some their tea. Had I been in a different 
ioiood, I should have found entertainment in studying this 
peculiar class of men. There were two especially, who were 
regular wags of the road, and up to all the standing jokes of 
jfcravellers. They had a thousand sly things to say to the wait- 
jing-maid, whom they called Louisa, and Ethehnda, and a dozen 
iotlier fine names, changing the name every time, and chuckling 
jamazingly at their own waggery. My mind, howcA^er, had 
ibecome completely engrossed by the stout gentleman. He had 
kept my fancy in chase dui^ing a long day, and it was not now 
to l)e diverted from the scent. 

Tte evening gradually wore away. The travellers read the 
papers two. or three times over. Some drew round the fire, 
and told long stories about their horses, about their adventures, 
their overturns, and breakings down. They discussed the cred- 
its of different merchants and different inns ; and the two wags 
toJd several choice anecdotes of pretty chamber-maids, and kind 
landladies. All this passed as they v»^ere quietly taking what 
thay called their night-caps, that is to say, strong glasses of 
jrandy and water and sugar, or some other mixture of the 
kind; after which they one after another rang for "Boots" 
and the chamber-maid, a.nd walked off to bed in old shoes cut 
down into marvellously uncoixnortable slippers. 

There was only one man left; a short-legged, long-bodied, 
Iplethoiiic fellow, with a very large, sandy head. He sat by 
jlmnself , with a glass of port wine negus, and a spoon ; sipping 



56 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 

and stirring, and meditating and sipping, until nothing wz 
loft but the spoon. He gradually fell asleep bolt upright in 
chair, with the empty glass standmg before him; and the can| 
die seemed to f a.U asleep too, for the T^ick grew long, and black 
and cabbaged at the end, and dimmed the- liLtle hght that n 
mained in the chamber. The gloom that now prevailed was 
contagious. Around hung the shapeless, and almost spectral, 
box-coats of departed travellers, long since buried in deep 
sleep. I only heard the ticking of the clock, with the deep- 
drawn breathings of the sleeping topers, and the drippings of 
the rain, drop— drop—drop, from the eaves of the house. Thof 
church-behs chimed midnight. All at once the stout gentle-^: 
man began to walk overhead, pacing slowly backwards and 
forwards. There was something extremely awful in all this, 
especially to one in my state of nerves. These ghastly great- 
coats, these guttural breathings, and the creaking footsteps of 
this mysterious being. His step^s grew fainter and fainter, and 
at length died away. I could bear it no longer. I was v/ound 
up to the desperation of a hero of rompouce. "Be he who or 
what he may," said I to myself, "I'll have a sight of hun.!" I 
seized a chamber candle, and hurried up to number 13. The 
dour stood ajar. I hesitated — I entered : the room was desert- 
ed. There stood a large, broad-bottomed elbow chair at a table, 
on which was an empty tumbler, and a "Times" newspaper, 
and the room smelt powerfully of Stilton cheese. 

The mj^'^terious stranger had evidently but just retired. I 
turned off, sorely disappointed, to my room, which had been 
changed to the front of the house. As I went along the corri- 
dor, I saw a large pair of boots, with dirty, waxed tops, stand- 
ing at the door of a bed-chamber. They doubtless belonged to 
the unknown ; but it would not do to distm^b so redoubtablo a 
personage in his den ; he might discharge a pistol, or something 
worse, at my head. I v/cnt to bed, therefore, and lay awako 
half the night in a terrible nervous state; and even when I fell 
asleep, I was still haunted in my dreams by the idea of the 
stout gentleman and his wax-topped boots. ^• 

I sle])t rather late the next mcrning, and was awakened by 
some stir and bustle in the house, wliich I could not at first 
comprehend ; until getting more awake, I found there was a 
mail-coach starting from the door. Suddenly there was a cry 
from below, " The gentleman has forgot his umbreUa! look for 
the gentleman's umbrella m No. J 8 !" I heard an inmiediate 
scampering of a chamber-maid along the passage, and a shrill 



FOREST TREES. '57 

reply as she ran, "Here it is! here's the gentleman's um- 
brella!" 

The mysterious stranger then was on the point of setting" off. 
Tliis was the only chance I should ever have of knowing him.. 
I sprang out of bed, scrambled to the window, snatched asido 
the curtains, and just caught a glimpse of the rear of a person 
getting in at the coach-door. The skirts of a brown coat parted 
behind, and gave me a full view of the broad disk of a pair cf 
drab breeches. The door closed— "all right!" was the word— 
the coach whirled off : — and that was all I ever oiiw of the stout 
gentleman ! 



FOREST TEEES. 

"A living- gallery of aged trees." 

One of the favourite themes of boasting with the Squire, is 
the noble trees on his estate, which, in truth, has some of the 
finest that I have seen in England. There is something august 
and solemn in the great avenues of stately oaks that gather 
their branches together high in air, and seem to reduce the 
pedestrians beneath them to mere pigmies. "An avenue of 
oaks or elms," the Squire observes, "is the true colonnade that 
should lead to a gentleman's house. As to stone and marble, 
any one can rear them at once— they are the work of the day; 
l)ut commend me to the colonnades that have grown old and 
great with the family, and tell by their grandeur hov/ long the 
family has endured." 

The Squire has great reverence for certain venerable trees, 
gray with moss, which he considers as the ancient nobihty of his 
domain. There is the ruin of an enormous oak, wliich has been 
so much battered by time and tempest, that scarce any tiling 
is left ; though he says Christy recollects when, in his boyhood, 
it was healthy and flourishing, until it was struck by lightning. 
It is now a mere tiimk, with one twisted bough stretching up 
into the air, leaving a. green branch at the end of it. This 
sturdy wreck is much valued by the Squire; he calls it his 
standard-bearer, and compares it to a veteran warrior beaten 
down in battle, but bearing up his banner to the last. He has 
a-ctually had a fonco built round it, to protect; it as mucli. as 



58 BRACEBRIBGE HALL. 

It is with great diSlculty that the Squire can ever be brought 
to have any tree cut down on his estate. To some he looks 
with reverence, as having been planted by his ancestors; to 
others T%^ith a kind of paternal aif ection, as having been planted 
by himself; and he feels a degree of awe in bringing down, 
with a fevv^ strokes of the axe, what it has cost centuries to 
build up. I confess I cannot but sympathize, in some degree, 
with the good Squire on the subject. Though brought up in a 
country overrun with forests, where trees are apt to be consid- 
ered mere encumbrances, and to be laid low without hesitation 
or remorse, yet I could never see a fine tree hewn down without 
concern. The poets, v/ho are naturally lovers of treec, as they 
are of every thing that is beautiful, have artfully awakened 
great interest in then- favour, by representing them as the habi • 
tations of sylvan deities ; insomuch that every great tree had its 
tutelar genius, or a nymph, whose existence v/as limited to its 
duraiion. Evelyn, in Ms Sylva, makes several pleasing and 
fanciful allusions to this superstition. "As the fall," says he, 
"of a very aged oak, giving a crack like thunder, has often 
been heard at many miles' distance; constrained though I 
often am to fell them wdth reluctancy, I do not at any time re- 
member to have heard the groans of those nymphs (grieving to 
be dispossessed of their ancient habitations) v/ithout some 
emotion and pity. ■' And again, in alluding to a violent storm 
that had devastated the woodlands, he says, "Methmks I still 
hear, sure I am that I still feel, the dismal groans of our 
forests; the late dreadful hurricane having subverted so many 
thousands of goodly oaks, prostrating the trees, laying them in 
ghastly postures, like whole regiments fallen in battle by the 
sword of the conqueror, and crushing all that grew beneath 
them. The public accounts," he adds, "reckon no less than 
three thousand brave oaks in one part only of the forest of 
Dean blo-^vn down." 

I have paused more than once in the wilderness of America, 
to contemplate the traces of some blast of wind, which seemed 
to have rushed down from the clouds, and ripped its way 
through the bosom of the woodlands; rooting up, shivering, 
and splintermg the stoutest trees, and leaving a long track of 
desolation. There was something awful in the vast havoc made 
among these gigantic plants; and in considering their magnifi- 
cent remains, so rudely torn and. mangled, and hurled down to 
perish prematurely on their native soil, I was conscious of a 
strong movement of the sympa.thy so feelingly expressed by 



FOREHT TREEa. 59 

E^-eljTi. I recollect, also, hearing a traveller of poetical tem- 
perament expressing the kind of horror which he felt on be- 
holding on the banlcs of the Missouri, an oak of prodigious size, 
which had been, in a manner, overpowered by an enormous 
wild grape-vine. The vine had clasped its huge folds round the 
trunk, and from thence had wound about every branch and 
twig, until the mightj^ tree had withered in its embrace. It 
seemed like Laocoon struggling ineffectually in the hideous 
coilp of the monster Python. It was the Hon of trees perishing 
in the embraces of a vegetable boa. 

I am fond of listening to the conversation of English gentle- 
men on rural concerns, and of noticing Avitli what taste and 
discrimination, and what strong, unaffected interest they will 
discus^ topics, which, in other countries, are abandoned to 
mer woodmen, or rustic cidtivators. I have heard a noble 
earl descant on park and forest scenery with the science and 
feeling of a painter. He dwelt en the shape and beauty of par- 
ticular trees on his estate, with as much pride and technical 
precision as though l>e had been discussing the merits of statues 
in his collection I found that he had even gone considerable 
distances to examine trees wMch were celebrated among rural 
amateurs ; for it seems that trees, like horses, have their estab- 
hshed points of excellence ; and that there are some in England 
which enjoy very extensive celebrity among tree-fanciers, from 
being perfect in their kind. 

There is something nobly simple and pure in such a taste: 
it argues, I thiilk, a sv/eet and generous nature, to have this 
strong relish for the beauties of vegetation, and this friend- 
ship for the hardy and glorious sons of the forest. There is 
a gi-andeur of thought connected with this part of iiiral econ- 
omy. It is, if I may be allowed the figijre, the heroic line of 
husbandry. It is worthy of liberal, and free-born, and aspiring 
men. He who plants an oak, looks forward to future ages, 
and plants for posterity. Nothing can be less selfish than this. 
He cannot expect to sit in its shade, nor enjoy its shelter; but 
he exults in the idea that the acoi-n v/hic-li he has buried in the 
earth shall grow up into a lofty i:)ilo. anl shall keep or< flour- 
ishuig, and increasing, and benefiting^ mankin(|, long after ho 
shall have ceased to tread his paternal fields. Indeed, it is tho 
nature of such occupations to lift the|fchoughts above r.ere 
worldhness. As the leaves of trees are said to absorb all i7<>x- 
ious qualities of the air, and to breathe forth a purer atmosiihcre, 
so it seems to me as if they dre^v from us all sordid and an,:rry 



60 BRACEBIUDGE HALL. 



J 



passions, and breathed forth peace and philanthropy. There 
a serene and settled majesty in woodland scenery, that enters' 
into the soul, and dilates and elevates it, and fills it with noble 
incHnations. The ancient and hereditary groves, too, that 
embower this island, are most of them full of story. They 
are haunted by the recollections oi great spirits of past ages, 
who have sought for relaxation among them from the tumult 
of arms, or the toils of state, or have wooed the muse beneath 
their shade. Who can walk, with soul unmoved, among the 
stately groves of Penshurst, where the gallant, the amiable, 
the elegant Sir Philip Sidney passed his boyhood ; or can look 
without fondness upon the tree that is said to have been 
planted on liis birthday; or can ramble among the classic 
bowers of Hagley ; or can pause among the sohtudes of Wind- 
sor Forest, and look at the oaks around, huge, gray, and time- 
worn, like the old castle towers, and not feel as if he were sur- 
rounded by so many monuments of long-enduring glorj?-? Itjs, 
when viewed in this light, that planted groves, and stately 
avenues, and cultivated parks, have an advantage over the 
more luxuriant beauties of unassisted nature. It is that they 
teem with moral associations, and keep up the ever-uiteresting 
story of human existence. 

It is incinnbent, then, on the high and generous spirits of an 
ancient nation, to cherish these sacred groves that sursound 
their ancestral mansions, and to perpetuate them to their de- 
scendants. Republican as I am by birth, and brought up as I 
hp.ve been in republican principles and habits', I can feel noth- 
ing of the servile reverence for titled rank, merely because it 
is titled ; but I trust that I a]n neither churl nor bigot in my 
creed.- I ca.n both see and feel how hereditary distinction, 
when it falls to the lot of a generous mind, may elevate that 
mind into true nobility. It is one of the effects of hereditary 
rank, when it falls thus happily, that it multiplies the duties, 
and, as it were, extends the existence of the possessor. He 
does not feel him.self a mere individual link in creation, resjion- 
sfole only for his own brief term of being. He carries back his 
existence in proud recollection, and lie extends it forward in 
lionourabie anticipation. He lives with his ancestry, and he 
lives with his posterity. To both does he consider himself 
involved in deep rep)onsibilities As he has received much 
from those that have gone before, so he feels bound to trans- 
mit much to those who are to come after him. His domestic 
undertakings seem to imply a longer existence than those of 



A LITERARY ANTIQUARY. 61 

ordinary men; none are so apt to build and plant for future 
centuries, as noble-spiritod men, who have received their 
heritages from foregone ages. 

I cannot but applaud, therefore, the fondness and pride 
with which I have noticed English gentlemen, of generous 
temperaments, and high aristocro.tic feelings, contemplating 
those magnificent trees, v/hich rise like towers and pyramids, 
from the midst of their paternal lands. There is an affinity 
between all nature, animate and inanimate: the cak, in the 
pride and lustihood of its growth, seems to me to take its 
range with the lion and the eagle, and to assimilate, in the 
grandeur of its attributes, to hei'oic and intellectual man. With 
its mighty pillar rising straight and direct towards lieaven, 
bearing up its leafy honours from the impurities of earth, and 
STipporting them aloft in free air and glorious sunshine, it is an 
emblem of what a true nobleman should he; a refuge for the 
weak, a shelter for the oppressed, a defence for the defence- 
less ; warding off from them the pcltings of the storm, or the 
scorching rays of arbitrary power. He who is this, is an orna- 
ment and a blessing to his native land. He vfho is oihertvise, 
abuses his eminent advantages; abuses the grandeur and 
prosperity which he has drawn from the bosom of "his country. 
Should tempests arise, and he be laid prostrate by the storm, 
who would mourn over his fall? Should he be borne down by 
the Oppressive hand of power, who would murmur at liis 
fate?— ''Why cumbereth he the ground?" 



A LITERAEY ANTIQUARY. 

Printed boolces he contenines, as a novelty of this latter age; but a manuscript ho 
pores on everlastingly; especially if the cover be all niotli-eaten, and the dust make 
a parentliesi-s betweene every syllable. — Mico-CosmogrojJhie, 1G28. 

The Squire receives great sympathy and support, in his anti- 
quated humours, from the parson, of whom I made some men- 
tion on my former visit to the Kail, and who acts as a kind of 
family chaplain. He has been cherished by the Squire almost 
constantly, since the time that thoy were fellow-students at 
Oxford; for it is one of the pecuhar advantages of these great 
uT'iversities, that they o^ton Jink the ]ioor scholar to the rich 
Xxitron. by (Kirly and heart-felt ties, that last tbmugh liTo. with- 



62 BEACEBRIDGE HALL. 






out the usual humiliations of dependence and patronage. Und 
the fostering protection of the Squire, therefore, the httle par- 
son has pursued his studies in peace. Having hved almost 
entirely among books, and those, too, old books, he is quite 
ignorant of the world, and his mind is as antiquated as the, 
garden at the Hall, where the flowers are all arranged in f orm^^ 
beds, and the yew-trees chpped into urns and peacocks. 

His taste for literary antiquities wa,s first imbibed in the 
Bodleian Library at Oxford ; where, when a student, he passed 
many an hour foraging among the old manuscripts. He has 
since, at different times, visited most of the curious libraries in 
England, and has ransacked many of the cathedrals. With all 
his quaiiit and curious lea-rning, he has nothing of arrogance or 
pedantry; but that unaffected earnestness and guileless sim- 
phcity which seem to belong to the literary antiquary. 

He is a dark, mouldy little man, and rather dry in his manner ; 
yet, on his favourite theme, he kindles up, and at times is even 
eloquent. No fox-hunter, recounting his last day's sport, could 
be more animated than I have seen the worthy parson, when 
relating his search after a curious document, which he had 
traced from hbrary to library, until he fairly unearthed it in 
the dusty chapter-house of a cathedral. When, too, he describes 
some venerable manuscript, with its rich illuminations, its tliick 
creamy vellum, its glossy ink, and the odour of the cloisters that 
seemed to exhale from it, he rivals the enthusiasm of a Parisian 
epicure, expatiating on the merits of a Perigord pie, or a Pa\te 
de Strasbourg. 

His brain seems absolutely haunted with love-sick dreams 
about gorgeous old works in ' ' silk hnings, triple gold bands, 
and tinted leather, locked up in wire cases, and secured from 
the vulgar hands of the mere reader;" and, to continue the 
happy expressions of an ingenious writer, ' ' dazzling one's eyes 
like eastern beauties, peering through their jealousies." * 

He has a great desire, however, to read such works in the old 
libraries and chapter-houses to wMch they belong; for he 
thinks a black-letter volume reads best in one of those venera- 
ble chambers whei^e the light struggles through dusty lancet 
.windows and painted glass; and that it loses half its zest, if 
taken away from the neighbourhood of the quaintly-carved 
oaken book-case and Gothic reading-desk. At his suggestion, 
the Squire has had the library furnished in this antique taste, 



*D"IsraeIi— Curiosities of Literature. 



A LITER AliY AyTJQVART. 03 

and sevei'al of the v/indows "glazed Tvitli painted glass, that tliey 
may throw a properly tempered lifrlit upon the pages of their 
favourite old authors. 

The parson, I am told, has been for some time meditating a 
commentary on Strutt, Brand, and Douce, in which he means 
to detect them in sundry dangerous errors in repjpect to popular 
games and suj^erstitions ; a work to which tlie Squire looks for- 
ward with great interest. He is, also, a casual contributor to 
that long- established repository of national customs and antiq- 
uities, the Gentleman's Magazine, and is one of those that every 
now and then make an inquiry concerning some obsolete cus- 
tom or rare legend ; nay, it is said that several of his conimun- ' 
ications have been at least six inches in length. He frequenlly 
receives parcels by coach from different parts of tiie kingdom, 
containing mouldy volumes and almost illegible manuscripts ; 
for it is singular what an active correspondence is kept up 
among literary antiquaries, and how soon the fame of any rare 
volume, or unique copy, just discovered among the rubbish 
of a library, is circulated among them. The parson is more 
busy uhan common just now, being a little flurried by an ad- 
vertisement of a work, said to be preparing for the press, on 
the mythology of the middle ages. The little man has long 
been gathering together all the hobgoblin tales he could collect, 
illustrative of the superstitions of former times ; and he is in 
a complete fever lest this formidable rival should take the 
field before him. 

Shortly after my arrival at the Hall, I called at the parson- 
age, in company with Mr. Bracebridge and the general. The 
parson had not been seen for several days, which was a matter 
of some surprise, as he was an almost daily visitor at the Hall. 
We found him in his study ; a small dusky chamber, Hghted by 
a lattice window that looked into the church-yard, and was 
overshadowed by a yew-tree. His chair was surrounded by 
folios and quartos, piled upon the floor, and his table v/as cov- 
ered with books and manuscripts. The cause of his seclusion 
was a work which he had I'ccently received, and vrith which 
he had retired in rapture from the v,'orld, and shut himself up 
to enjoy a literary honeymoon undisturbed. Never did board- 
ing-school girl devour the pages of a sentimental novel, or Don 
Quixote a chivalrous romance, with more intense delight than 
did the little man banquet on the pages of this delicious work. 
It was Dibdin's Bibliogi'apliical Tour; a work calculated to have 
as ifitoxicating an effect on the imaginations of literary anti- 



64 BBACEBBLDOE HALL. 

quaries, as the adventures of the heroes of the round table, on 

all true knights ; or the tales of the early American voyagers 
on the ardent spirits of the age, filling them -with dreams of 
Mexican and Peruvian mines, and of the golden realm of El 
Dorado. 

The good parson had looked forward to this bibliographical 
expedition as of far greater importance than those to Africa or 
the North Pole. With what eagerness had he seized upon the 
histoiy of the enterprise ! with what interest had he followed 'J 
the redoubtable bibliographer and his graphical squire in theirlj 
adventurous roamings among Norman castles, and cathedrals, 
and French hbraries, and German convents and uniA^eisities ; 
penetrating into the prison-houses of vellnm manuscripts, and 
exquisitely illuminated missals, and reveahng their beauties to 
the world I 

When the parson had fmished a rapturous eulogy on this 
most curious a.nd entertaining work, he drew forth from a httlo 
drawer a manuscript, lately received from a correspondent, 
which had perplexed him sadly. It was written in Norman 
French, in very ancient characters, and so faded and mouldered 
away as to be almost illegible. It was apparently an old Norman 
drinking song, that might have been brought over by one of 
V7iiliam the Conqueror's carousing followers. The writing was 
just le;;db]e enough to keep a keen antiquity-hunter on a doubt- 
ful chase ; here and there he would be completely thrown out, 
and then there would be a few words so plainly written as to 
put him on the scent again. In this way he had been led on 
for a whole day, until he had found liimseif completely at 
fault. 

The Squire endeavoured to assist him, but was equally baffled. 
The old general hstened for some time to the discussion, and 
then asked the parson if he had read Captain Morris\s, or 
George Stevens's, or Anacreon Moore's bacchanalian songs? 
On the other replying in the negative, "Oh, then," said the 
general, v/ith a sagacious nod, " if you want a drinking song, 
I can furnish you with the latest collection— I did not know 
you had a turn for those kind of tilings; and I can lend -you 
the Encyclopedia of Wit into the bargain. I never travel v/ith- 
out them; they're excellent reading a.t an inn." 

It would not be easy to describe the odd look of surprise and 
perplexity of the parson, at tliis proposal ; or the diinoulty the 
Squii'e had in making the general comprehend, that though a 
jovial song of the present day was but a foolish sound in the 



A LlTKltAIiT ASrii^lJAnY. 65 

jaxs of wisdom, and beneath tlie notice of a learned man, yet a 
Towl, -wa-itten by a tosspot several hundred years since, was a 
natter worthy of the gravest research, and enough to set 
^hole colleges by the ears. 

I have since pondered much on this matter, and have 
igured to myself what may be the fate of our current litera- 
ture when retrieved, piecemeal, by future antiquaries, from 
^mokg the rubbish of ages. What a Magnus Apollo, for 
instance, will Moore become, among sober divines and dusty 
Bchoohnen! Even his festive and amatory songs, which are 
aow the mere quickeners of our social moments, or the delights 
of our drawing-rooms, will then become matters of laborious 
research and painful collation. How many a grave professor 
will then waste his midnight oil, or worry his brain through a 
long morning, endeavouring to restore the pure text, or illus- 
trate the biogi-aphical hints of "Come, tell me, says Rosa, as 
kissing and kissed;" and how many an arid old bookworm, hke 
the Y/orthy little parson, wiU give up in despair, after vainly 
striving to fill up some fatal hiatus^ in " Fanny of Tiimnol" I 

Nor is it merely such exquisite authors as !-Ioore that are 
doomed to consume the oil of future antiquaries. Many a poor 
scribbler, who is now, apparently, sent to oblivion by-i>astry- 
cooks and cheese-mongers, will then rise again in fragments, 
and flourish in learned inmiortality. 

After all, yaought I, tinie is not such an invariable destroyer 
as he is represented. If he pulls down, he likewise builds up; 
if he hnpoverishes one, he enriches another; his very dilapida- 
tions furnish matter for new works of controversy, and his 
rust is more precious than the most costly gilding. Llnder his 
plastic hand, trifles rise into hnportance ; the nonsense of one 
age becomes the wisdom of another; the levity of tlie wit gravi- 
►tates into the learning of the pedant, and an ancient fartlmig 
moulders into infinitely more value than a modern g-uinea. 



66 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.. 



THE FARM-HOUSE. 

" Love and hay 

Are thick sown, but come up full of thistles." 

— Bkaumont and Fi,etoher. 

I WAS SO mucii pleased with the anecdotes which were toid 
me of Ready-Money Jack Tibbets, that I got Master Simon, a 
day or two since, to take me to his house. It was an old- 
fashioned farm-house built with brick, with curiously twisted 
chimneys. It stood at a httle distance from the road, v/ith a 
southern exposure, looking upon a soft green slope of meadow. 
There was a small garden in front, with a row of bee-hives 
humming among beds of sweet herbs and flowers. WeU- 
scoured milking tubs, with bright copper hoops, hung on the 
garden paling. Fruit trees were trained up against the cottage, 
and pots of flowers stood in the windows. A fat, superannuated 
mastiiT lay in the sunshine at the door ; v,dth a sleek cat sleep- 
ing peacefully across liim. 

Mr. Tibbets was from home at the time of our calling, butv^e 
were received with hearty and homely welcome by his wife ; a 
notable, motherly woman, and a complete pattern for wives ; 
since, according to Master Simon's account, she never contra- 
dicts honest Jack, and yet manages to have her own vray, and 
to control him in every tiling. 

She received us in tlie main room of the house, a kind of 
parlour and hall, with great brown beams of timber across it, 
which Mr. Tibbets is apt to point out with some exultation' 
observin^c, that they don't put such timber in houses no>7-a- 
days. The furniture was old-fashioned, strong, and highly 
polished : the walls were hung with coloured prints of the story 
of the Prodigal Son, who was represented m a red coat and 
leather breeches. Over the fire-place v/as a blund^erbuss, and 
a hard-favoured hkeness of -Ready-Money Jack, taken when he 
was a young man, by the same artist that painted the tavern 
sign; his mother ha^dng taken a notion that the Tibbets' had 
as much r^:ght to have a gallery of family portraits as the folks 
at the Hall. 

The good dame pressed us very much to take some refresh- 
ment, and tempted us with a variety of household dainties, so 
that we were glad to compoiuid by tasting some of her home- 
made wines. While we were there, the son and- heir-apparent 



2IIK FARMHOUSE. 67 

came home ; a good-looking young fellow, and .something of a 
rustic beau. He took us over the premises,, and showed us the 
whole establishment. An air of homely but substantial plenty 
prevailed throughout ; every thing was of the best materials, 
and in the best condition. Nothing was out of place, or ill 
naade ; and you saw every where the signs of a man that took 
care to have the worth of his money, and that paid as he went. 

The farm-yard was well stocked; under a shed was a taxed 
cart, in trim order, in which Ready-Money Jack took his wife 
about the country. His well-fed horse neighed from the stable, 
and when led out into the yard, to use the words of young 
Jack, "he shone like a bottle;" for he said the old man made 
it a rule that every tiling about him should fare as well as he 
did himself. 

I was pleased to see the pride which the young fellow seemed 
to Jiaye of his father. He gave us several pai^ticulars concern- 
ing his habits, which were pretty much to the ellect of those I 
have already mentioned. He had never sulf ered an account to 
stand in his life, always providing the money before he pur- 
chased any thmg; and, if possible, paying in gold and silver. 
He had a great dislike to paper money, and seldom went with- 
out a considerable sum in gold about him. On my observing 
that it was a wonder he had never been waylaid and robbed, 
the young fellow smiled at the idea of any one venturing upon 
such an exploit, for I believe he thinks the old man would be a 
match for Robin Hood and all his gang. 

I have noticed that Master Simon seldom goes into any house 
without havmg a world of private talk with some one or other 
of the family, being a kind of universal counsellor and confi- 
dant. We had not been long at the farm, before the old dame 
got liim into a corner of her parlour, where they had a long, 
whispering conference together ; in Vviiich I saw, by his shrugs, 
that there were some dubious matters discussed, and by his 
nods that he agreed with every thing she said. 

After we had come out, the young man accompanied us a 
little distance, and then, drawing Master Simon aside uito a 
gi-een lane, they walked and talked together for nearly half an 
hour. Master Sunon, who has the usual propensity of confi- 
dants to blab every tMng to the next friend they meet with, 
\ lot me know that there was a love affair m question ; the young 
\ fellow having been smitten with the charms of Phoebe WiLkins, 
the pretty niece of the housekeeper at the Hall. I/Ike most 
i other love concerns, it had brought its troubles and perplexi- 



08 BRACEBEIDGE HALL. 



m^ 



ties. Dame Tibbets had long been on intimate, gossiping ter; 
with the housekeeper, who often visited the farm-house; bu#' 
when the neighbours spoke to her of the hkehhood of a match 
between her son and Phoebe Yvilkins, "Marry come up!" she'. 
scouted the very idea. The girl had acted as lady's, maid ; and 
it was beneath the Mood of the Tibbets', who had lived on tlieir 
own lands time out of mind, and ov^red reverence and thanks to 
nobody, to have the heir-apparent marry a servant ! 

These vapourmgs had. faithfully been carried to the house- 
keeper's ear, by one of their mutual go-between friends. The 
old housekeeper's blood, if not as ancient, was as quick a-s that 
of Dame Tibbets. She had been accustomed to carry a high 
head at the Hall, and among the villagers; and her faded 
brocade rustled with indignation at the slight cast upon her 
alliance by the -vife of a petty farmer. She maintained that 
her niece had been a companion rather than a waiting-maid to 
tiae young ladies. ' ' Thank heavens, she was not obliged to 
work for her living, and was as idle as any young lady in the 
land ; and when somebody died, would receive something that 
would be worth the notice of some folks, with all their ready 
money." 

A bitter feud had thus taken place between the two worthy 
dames, and the young people were forbidden to think of one 
another. As to young Jack, he was too much in love to reason 
upon the matter; and being a little heady, and not standing in 
much awe of his mother, was ready to sacrilice tliQ whole 
dignity of the Tibbets' to his passion. He had lately, ho vf ever, 
had a violent quai;rel with his mistress, in consequence of some 
coquetry on her part, and at present stood aloof. The politic 
mother was exerting all her ingenuity to widen the accidental 
breach; but, as is most commonly the case, the more she med- 
dled with this perverse inclination of the son, the stronger it 
grew. In the meantime, old Eeady-Money was kept completely 
in the dark ; both parties w-ere in awe and uncertainty as to 
what might be his way of taking the matter, ^nd dreaded to 
awaken the sleeping lion. Between father and son, thoreiore, 
the worthy Mrs. Tibbets was full of business, and at her wIc'b 
end.. It is true there was no gj/eat danger of honest Read\'- 
Money's finding the thing out, if left to himself ; for he wn.s of 
a most unsuspicious temper, and by no means quick of a]3j:..L*e- • 
hension; but there was daily risk of his attention being arorir^cd, 
by the cobwebs which his indefatigable ^vife was ccroti Dually 
spinning about his nose. 



nORSEMAN^niP. (^9 

n Such is the distracted state of politics, in the domestic empire 
I of Ready-Money Jack; which only shows the intrigues and 
' internal dangers to which the best-regulated governments are 
1 liable. In this perplexed situation of their affairs, both mother 
I and son have applied to Master Simon for counsel ; and, with 
lall his experience in meddling with other people's concerns, he 
finds it an exceedingly difficult part to play, to agree with both 
parties, seeing that their opinions and wishes are so diametri- 
cally opposite. 



HORSEMANSHIP. 

A coach was a strange monster in those days, and the sight put both horse and 

iman into amazement. Some said it was a great crabshell brought out of China, and 
some imagined it to be one of the pagan temples, in which the canibals adored the. 
divell.— Taylor, the Water Poet. 

I HAVE made casual mention, more than once, of one of the 
Squire's antiquated retainers, old Christy, the huntsman. I 
fmd that his crabbed humour is a source of much entertainment 
among the young men of the family ; the Oxonian, particulai'ly, 
takes a mischievous pleasure, now and then, in slyly rubbing 
the old man against the gi*ain, and then smoothing him down 
again ; for the old fellow is as ready to bristle up his back as a 
porcupine. He rides a venerable hunter called Pepper, which 
is a counterpart of himself, a heady cross-gi-ained animal, that 
frets the flesh off its bones ; bites, kicks, and plays aU manner 
of villainous tricks. He is as tough, and nearly as old as his 
rider, who has ridden him time out of mind, and is, indeed, 
the only -^ne that can do any thing with him. Sometimes, 
however, they have a complete quarrel, and a dispute for 
mastery, and then, I am told, it is as good as a farce to see the 
heat they both get into, and the wrong-headed contest that 
ensues ; for they are quite knowing in each other's ways, and 
in the art of teasing and fretting each other. Notwithstanding 
these doughty brawls, however, there is nothing that nettles 
old Christy sooner than to question the merits of the horse: 
which he upholds as tenaciously as a faitliful husband will 
vindicate the virtues of the termagant spouse, that gi^^es him a 
j cm'tain lecture every night of bis life. 

j The young men call old Christy tbeir ''professor of equita- 
ition;'\ind in accounting for the appellation, they let me int^ 



70 J^R^^ CEBRIDOE HALL. 

some particulars of the Squire's mode of bringing up his cl 
dren. There is an odd mixture of eccentricity and good sei 
in all the opinions of my worthy host. His mind is hke moc 
ern Gothic, where plain brick-work is set off with pointec 
arches and quaint tracery. Though the main groimd-Avork o 
his opinions is correct, yet he has a thousand Mttle notion^ 
picked up from old books, which stand out whimsically on the 
surface of his mind. 

Thus, in educating his boys, he chose Peachem, Markam, anc 
such like old English ^rri^ers, for his manuals. At an earl] 
age he took the lads out of their mother's hands, who was dis 
posed, as mothers are apt to be, to make fine, orderly childrei 
of them, that should keep out of sun and rain and never soi 
their hands, nor tear their clothes. . 

In place of this, the Squire turned them loose to run free an^ 
wild about the park, without heeding wind or weather. H( 
was, also, particularly attentive in making them bold and e: 
pert horsemen; and these were the days when old Christy 
the huntsman, enjoyed great importance, as the lads were pu; 
un.der his care to practise them at the leaping-bars, and to kee| 
an eye upon them in the chase. 

The Squire always objected to their riding in carriages of anj 
kind, and is still a little tenacious on this point. He often railj 
against the universal use of carriages, and quotes the words 
honest Nashe to that effect. " It was thought," says Nashe, in"" 
his Quaternio, '^ a kind of solecism, and to savour of effeminacy, 
for a young gentleman in the flourishing tune of his age to 
creep into a coach, and to shroud himself from wind ancLj 
weather: our great delight was to outbrave the blusterii 
Boreas upon a gi-eat horse ; to arm and prepare ourselves to g< 
with Mars and Bellona into the field, was our sport and pj 
time ; coaches and caroches we left unto them for whom the^ 
were first invented, for ladies and gentlemen, and decrepit age 
and impotent people. " 

The Squire insists that the English gentlemen have lost mucb^ 
of their hardiness and manhood, since the introduction of cai 
riages. ' 'Compare, " he will say, ' ' the fine gentleman of formei 
times, ever on horseback, booted and spurred, and travel^ 
stained, but open, frank, manly, and chivalrous, with the fine 
gentleman of the present day, full of affectation and effeminacy, 
rolling along a turnpike in his voluptuous vehicle. The young 
men of those days were rendered brave, and lofty, and gener- 
ous in their notions, hj almost Hving in their saddles, and hav- j 



HOJIHEMANSHIP, *71 

ing their foaming steeds 'like yjroiid seas under tliora.' There 
is something," he adds, "in be»triding a tine horse that makes 
a man feel more than mortal. He seems to have doubled his 
nature, and to have added to his own courage and sagacity the 
power, the speed, and stateMness of the superb animal on which 
he is mounted. " 

" It is a great delight," says old Nashe, " to see a young gen- 
tleman Avifch his skill and cunning, by his voice, rod, and spur, 
better to manage and to command the great Bucephalus, than 
the strongest Milo, with all his strength ; one while to see him 
make him tread, trot, and gallop the ring; and one after to 
see him make him gather up roundlj^ ; to bear his head stead- 
ily ; to run a full career swiftly; to stop a sudden hghtly ; anon 
after to see him make him advance, to yerke, to go back, and 
sidelong, to turn on either hand ; to gallop the gallop galliard ; 
to do the capriole, the chambel^ta, and dance the curvetty. " 

In conformity to these ideas, the Squire had them all on 
horseback at an early age, and made them ride, slapdash, about 
the country, without flinching at hedge, or ditch, or stone waU, 
to the imminent danger of their necks. 

Even the fair Juha was jjartially included in this system; 
and, under the instructions of old Christy, has become one of 
the best horsewomen in the country. The Squire says it is 
better than all the cosmetics and sweeteners of the breath that 
ever were invented. He extols the horsemanship of the ladies 
in former times, when Queen Elizabeth would scarcely suffer 
the rain to stop her accustomed ride. "And then think," he 
will say, "what nobler and sweeter beings it made them. 
What a difference must there be, both in mind and body, be- 
tween a joyous, high-spirited dame of those dayrj, glowing with 
health and exercise, freshened by every breeze that blows, 
seated loftily and gi*acefully on her saddle, with plume on 
head, and hawk on hand, and her descendan': of the present 
day, the pale victim of routs and baU-rooms, sunk languidly 
in one corner of an enervating carriage." 

The Squire's equestrian system has been attended with great 
success ; for his sons, having passed through the whole course 
of instruction without breaking neck or limb, are now health- 
ful, spirited, and active, and have the true Enghshman's love 
for a horse. If their manliness and frankness are praised in 
their father's hearing, he quotes the old Persian maxim, and 
says, they have been taught ' ' to ride, to shoot, and to speak 
the truth." 



7^ BRACEBIUDGE HALL, 

It is true, the Oxonian has now and then practised the oi 
gentleman's doctrines a little in the extreme. He is a ga; 
youngster, rather fonder of his horse than his book, with a Hi 
tie dash of the dandy ; though the ladies all declare that he \ 
*'the flower of the flock." The first year that he was sent i 
Oxford, he had a tutor appointed to overlook hun, a dry chj 
of the university. When he returned home in the vacation 
the Squire made many inquiries about how he liked his college 
his studies, and his tutor. 

"Oh, as to my tutor, sir, I've parted with him some tim 
since." 

"You have! and, pray, why so?" 

"Oh, sir, hunting was all the go at our college, and I was^ 
Httle short of funds ; so I discharged my tutor, and took ' 
horse, you know." 

"Ah, I was not aware of that, Tom," said the Squire, mildlj 

When Tom returned to college, his allowance was double 
that he might be enabled to keep both horse and tutor. 



LOVE SYMPTOMS. 

I will now be'gin to sigh, read poets, look pale, go neatly, and be most apparent' 
in Icve.— Marston. 

I SHOULD not be surprised, if we should have another pair of 
turtles at the Hall ; for Master Simon has informed me, in great 
confidence, that he sus}>ects the general of some design upon 
the susceptible heart of Lady Lfllycraft. I have, indeed, no- 
ticed a gi'owing attention and courtesy in the veteran towards 
her ladyship ; he softens very much in her company, sits by 
her at table, and entei-tains her with long stories about Sering- 
apatam, and pleasant anecdotes of the Muhigatawney club. 
I have even seen him present li..r with a fuU-blown rose from 
theiiofc-house, in a style of the most captivating gaUanfcry, and 
it was accepted with gTeat suavity and graciousness ; for her 
ladyship delights in receiving the homage and attention of the 
sex. 

Indeed, the general was one of the earliest admirers that 
dangled in her train, during her short reign of beauty ; and 
they flirted together for half a season in London, some thirty 
or forty years since. She reminded him lately, in the course 



LuVI-: ;>YMPTuMS. 73 

of a conversation about former clays, of the time when he used 
to ride a white horse, and to canter so gallantly by the side of 
her carriage in Hyde Park ; whereupon I have remarked that 
i the veteran has regularly escorted her since, when she rides 
out on horseback ; and, I suspect, he almost persuades himself 
that he makes as captivating an appearance as in his youthful 
days. 

It would be an interesting and memoi-able circumstance in 
the chronicles of Cupid, if this spark of the tender passion, after 
Ijing dormant for such a length of time, should again be fanned 
into a ilame, from amidst the ashes of two burnt-out hearts. It 
would be an instance of perdurr.ble fidelity, worthy of being 
placed beside those recorded in one of the Squire's favourite 
tomes, commemorating the constancy of the olden times ; in 
which times, we are told, "Men and wymmen coulde love 
togyders seven yeres, and no licours lustes were betwene them, 
and thenne was love, trouthe, and feythfulnes; and lo m lyke 
wyse was used love in King Arthur's dayes." * 

Still, however, this may be nothing but a little venerable 
flirtation, the general being a veteran dangler, and the good 
lady habituated to these kind of attentions. ]\.Iaster Simon, on 
the other hand, tliinks the general is looking about him with 
the wary eye of an old campaigner ; and, now that he is on the 
wane, is desirous of getting into warm w^inter-quarters. Much 
allowance, however, must be made for Master Simon's uneasi- 
ness on the subject, for he looks on Lj:dy Lillycraft's house as 
one of his strongholds, where he is lord of the ascendant ; and, 
with all his admiration of the general, I much doubt w^hether 
he would like to see hun lord of the lady and the cstabhsh- 
ment. 

There are certain other symptoms, notwithstanding, that give 
an air of probability to Master Simon's intimations. Thus, 
for instance, I have observed that the general has been veiy 
assiduous in his a^ttentions to her ladyship's dogs, and haa 
several times exposed his fingei^ to imminent jeopardy, in at- 
tempting to pat Beauty on the 'head. It is to be hoped his 
advances to the mistress wiU be more favourably received, as all 
his overtures towards a caress are greeted by the pestilent little 
cur with a wary kindling of the eye, and a most venomous 
growl. 

He has, moreover, been very complaisant towards my lady's 

♦ Mor\d' Arthur. 



74 BBAGEBJRIBGE HALL. 

gentlewomf^ii, the iinniacuiate Mrs. Hannah, whom he used 1 
speak of iii a way that I do not choose to mention. Wheth^ 
she has the same suspicions with Master Sim.on or not, I cannq 
say ; but she receives his civilities with no better grace than tlj 
implacable Beauty; unscrewing her mouth into a most ac| 
smile, and looking as though she could bite a piece out of hin 
In short; the poor general seems to have as formidable foes 
contend with, as a hero of ancient fairy tale ; who had to figh 
his way to his enchanted princess through ferocious monsters 
of every kind, and to encounter the brimstone terrors of some 
fiery dragon. 

There is still another circumstance, which inclines me to give 
very considerable credit to Master Simon's suspicions. Lady 
LiUycraft is very fond of quoting poetry, and the conversation 
often turns upon it, on which occasions the general is thrown 
completely out. It happened the other day that Spenser's 
Fairy Queen was the theme for the greater part of the morn^ 
ing, and the poor general sat iDerfectly silent. I found him not 
long after in the library, with spectacles on nose, a book in his 
hand, and fast asleep. On my approach, he awoke, slipt the 
gpectacles mto his pocket, and began to read very attentively. 
After a little while he put a paper in the place, and laid the 
volume aside, which I perceived was the Fairy Queen. I have 
had the curiosity to watch how he got on in his poetical studies ; 
but though I have repeatedly seen him with the book in his 
hand, yet I find the paper has not advanced above three or 
four pages ; the general being extremely apt to fall asleep when 
he reads. 



FALCONEY. 



Ne is there hawk which mautleth on her perch, 

Whether high tow'ring or accnusting low, 
But I the measure of lier flight doe search, 

And all her prey and aii her diet know.— Spenser. 

There are several grand sources of lamentation fiu^nished to 
the worthy Squire, by the improvement of society and the 
grievous advancement of knowledge; among which there is 
none, I believe, that causes him more frequent regret than the 
unfortunate invention of gunpowder. To this he continually 
traces the decay of some favourite custom, and, indeed, the 



i FALCONRY. 75 

general do-^nf all of all chivalrous and romantic usages. ' ' Eng- 
Ifeh soldiers,'' he says, "have never been the men they were in 
the days of the cross-bow and the long-bow; when they de- 
pended upon the strength of the arm, and the Enrhsh archer 
could draw a cloth-yard shaft to the head. These were the 
Eimes when, at the battles of Cressy, Poictlers, and Agincourt, 
feho French chivalry was completely destroyed by the bowmen 
fc)f England. The yeomanry, too, have never been what they 
were, when, in times of peace, they were constantly exercised 
[with the bow, and archery was a favourite holiday pastime." 
I Among the other evils which have followed in the train of 
this fatal invention of gunpowder, the Squire classes the total 
dechne of the noble art of falconry. " Shooting," he says, "is 
a skulking, treacherous, solitary sport, in comparison; but 
hawking was a gallant, open, sunshiny recreation; it was the 
generous sport of hunting carried into the skies." 
I "It was, moreover," he says, " according to Braithwate, the 
stately amusement of ' liigh and mounting spirits; ' for as the 
iold Welsh proverb affirms in those times, ' you might know a 
gentleman by his hawk, horse, and gray hound.' Indeed, a 
cavaher was seldom seen- abroad without his hawk on his fist : 
and even a lady of rank did not think herself completely 
Equipped, in riding forth, unless she had a tassel-gentei held by 
jesses on her delicate hand. It was thought in those excellent 
days, according to an old writer, 'quite sufficient tor noule- 
}men to wuide their horn, and to carry their iiawke fair ; and 
leave study and learning to the children of mean people. ' " 

Knowing the good Squu-e's hobby, thereioio, I hare not been 
surprised at finding that, among the various reoreatiouL o^ for- 
mer times which he has endeavoured to re^ ivo in txie little t. ^rld 
iln which he rules, he has bestowed great attention on tho noLb 
[art of falconry. In this he, of course, has been secondod b3- his 
indefatigable coadjutor. Master Simon; and even the par ion 
I has thrown considerable light on their labours, by various hints 
on the subject, which he has met with in old Enghsh works. 
As to the precious work of that famous dame, Juliana Barnes; 
the Gentleman's Academic, by Markham ; and the other well- 
known treatises that were the manuals of ancient sportsmen, 
they have them at their fingers' ends; but they have moro 
especially studied some old tapestry in the house, whereon is 
represented a party of cavaliers and stately dames, with doub- 
lets, caps, and flaunting feathers, moimted on horse, with 
attendants on foot, all m anhnated pursuit of the game. 



76 BRACEBRIBGE 3ALL. ' 

The Squire has discountenanced the killing of any ha'wks ii 
his neighbourhood, but gives a hberal bounty for all that ar| 
brought him alive ; so that the Hall is well stocked with aj 
kinds of birds of prey. On these he and Master Simon hav^ 
exhausted their iia^tience and ingenuity, endeavouring to 
claim" them, as it is termed, and to train them up for the Gpoiii! 
but they have met with continual checks and disappointments 
Their feathered school has turned out the most untractable anc 
graceless scholars : nor is it the least of their trouble to dri! 
the retainers who were to act as ushers under them, aud ii 
take immediate charge of these refractory birds. Old ChristJ 
and the gamekeeper both, for a time, set their faces n gains! 
the whole plan of education ; Christy having been nettled ai 
hearing what he terms a wild-goose chase put on a par with i 
fox-hunt ; and the gamekeeper having always been accustomed 
to look upon hawks as arrant poachers, which it was his dut^ 
to shoot down, and nail, in terrorem, against the out-houses. 

Christy has at length taken the matter in hand, but has doni 
still more mischief by his intermeddling. He is as positive anx 
wrong-headed about this, as he is about hunting. Mastt 
Simon has continual disputes with him, as to feeding am 
training the hawks. He reads to him long passages from th< 
old authors I have mentioned ; but Christy, who cannot ret 
has a sovereign contempt for all book-knowledge, and persist 
in treating the hawks according to his own notions, which arc 
drawn from his experience, m yoimger days, in the rearing 
game-cocks. 

The consequence is, that, between these jarring systems, the 
poor birds have had a most trying and unhappy time of it 
Man^f have fallen victims to Christy's feeding and Master 
Simon's physicking ; for the latter has gone to work secundum 
artem, and has given them all the vomitings and scourings laid 
do^\Ti in the books ; never were poor hawks so fed and phy- 
sicked before. Others have been lost by being but half "re- 
claimed," or tamed; for on baing taken into the field, they; 
have "raked" after the game quite out of hearing of the call, 
and never returned to school. 

All these disappointments had been petty, yet sore grievances 
to the Squire, and had made him to despond about success. 
He has lately, however, been made happy by the receipt of a 
fine Welsh falcon, vv^hich Master Simon terms a stately high- 
flyer. It is a present from the Squire's friend, Sir Watkyn 
Williaaris Wynne; and is, no doubt, a descendant of some 



FALCONRY. 77 

ancient line of Welsh princes of the air, that have long lorded 
it over their kingdom of clouds, from Wynnstay to the very 
summit of Snowden, or the brow of Penmanmawr. 

Ever since the Squire i-eceivcd this invaluable present, he 
jhas been as impatient to sally forth and make proof of it, as 
was Don Quixote to assay his suit of armour. There have been 
some demurs as to whether the bird was in proper health and 
training; but these have been overruled by the vehement 
desire to play with a new toy ; and it has been determined, 
right or wrong, in season or out of season, to have a day's 
sport in hawking to-morrow. 

The Hall, as usual, whenever the Squire is about to make 
some new sally on his hobby, is all agog with the thing. Miss 
Templeton, who is brought up in reverence for all her guardi- 
an's humours, has proposed to be of the party ; and Lady Lilly- 
craft has talked also of riding out to the scene of action and 
looking on. This has gratified the old gentleman extremely ; 
he hails it as an auspicious omen of the revival of falconry, and 
does not despair but the time will come when it will be again 
the pride of a fine lady to car^y about a noble falcon, in 
preference to a parrot or a lap-dog. 

I have amused myself with the bustling preparations of that 
busy spirit. Master Simon, and the continual thAvartings he 
receives from that genuine son of a pepper-box, old Christy. 
They have had half-a-dozen consultations about how the hawk 
is to be prepared for the morning's sport. Old Nimrod, as 
usual, has always got in a pet, upon which Master Simon has 
invariably given up the point, observing, in a good-humoured 
tone, "Well, well, have it your own way, Christy; only don't 
put yourself in a passion ;" a reply which always nettles the 
old man ten times more than ever. 



78 BU AC KB RIDGE HALL. 



HAWXING. 

TKe soaring hawk, from fist that flies, 

Her falconer doth constrain - 

Some times to range the ground about 

To find her out again ; 
And if by sight or sound of bell, 

His falcon he may see. 
Wo ho! he cries, with cheerful voice — 

The gladdest man is he.— Handful of Pleasant Delifes. 

At an early hour this morning, the Hall was in a bustle pi 
paring for the sport of the day. I heard Master Simon whii 
tling and singing under my window at sunrise, as he was pri 
paring the jesses for the hawk's legs, and could disfcinguis 
now and then a stanza of one of his favourite old ditties: 

"In peascod time, when hound to horn 
Gives note that buck be kill'd; 
And little boy, with pipe of corn, 
Is tending sheep a-field," &c. 

A hearty breakfast, well flanked by cold meats, was serve( 
up in the great hall. The whole garrison of retainers an 
hangers-on were in motion, re-enforced by volunteer idlen 
from the village. The horses were led up and down before th< 
door; every body had something to say, and something to dq 
and hurried hither and thither ; there was a direful yelping q 
dogs ; some that were to accompany us being eager to set off 
and others that were to stay at home being whipped back t( 
their kennels. In short, for once, the good Squire's mansioi 
might have been taken as a good specimen of one of the rantj 
pole establishments of the good old feudal times. 

Breakfast being finished, the chivalry of the Hall prepare^ 
to take the field. The fair Julia was of the party, in a hunting 
dress, ^vith a light plume of feathers in her riding-hat. As shi^ 
mounted her favourite galloway, I remarked, with pleasure 
that old Christy forgot his usual crustiness, and hastened tc 
adjust her saddle and bridle. He touched his cap, as she smi].o< 
on him, and thanked him; and then, looking round at th 
other attendants, gave a knowing nod of his head, in which j 
read pride and exultation at the charming appearance of his 
pupil. 

Lady Lillycraft had Mkewise determined to witness the sport 
She was dressed in her broad white beaver, tied imder the ch 



^ HAWKING. 79 

I and a riding-habit of the last century. She rode her sleek, 
ambling pony, whose motion was as easy as a rocking-chair ; 
and was gallantly escorted by the general, who looked not 
unlike one of the doughty heroes in the old prints of the battle 
of Blenheim. The parson, likewise, accompanied her on the 
other side; for this was a learned amusement, in which he 
took great interest; and, indeed, had given much counsel, from 
his knowledge of old customs. 

At length every thing was arranged, and off we set from the 
Hall. The exercise on horseback puts one in fine spirits ; and 
jthe scone was gay and animating. The young men of the fam- 
ily accompanied Miss Templeton. She sat lightly and gi*ace- 
fully in her saddle, her plumes dancing and waging in the air ; 
and the group had a charming effect, as they appeared and dis- 
appeared among the trees, cantering along, with the bounding 
animation of youth. The Squire and Master Simon rode to- 
gether, accompanied by old Christy, mounted on Pepper. The 
latter bore the hawk on his fist, as he insisted the bird was 
most accustomed to him. There was a rabble rout on foot, 
composed of retainers ft'om the Hall, and some idlers from the 
village, with two or three spaniels, for the purpose of starting 
the game. 

A kind of corps de resei^e came on quietly in the rear, com- 
posed of Lady Lillycraft, General Harbottle, the parson, and a 
fat footman. Her ladyship ambled gently along on her pony, 
while the general, mounted on a tall hunter, looked down upon 
her with an air of the most protecting gallantry. 

For my part, being no sportsman, 1 kept with this last party, 
or rather lagged behind, that I might take in the whole pic- 
ture; and the parson occasionally slackened his pace, and 
jogged on in company with me. 

The sport led us at some distance from the Hall, in a soft 
meadow, reeking with the moist verdure of spring. A little 
river ran through it, bordered by willows, which had put forth 
their tender early foliage. The sportsmen were in quest of 
herons, which were said to keep about this stream. 

Tliere was some disputing, already, among the leaders of the 
epoi-t. The Squire, IMaster Simon, and old Chi-isty, came every 
now and then to a pause, to consult together, hke the field offi- 
cers in an army; and I saw, by certain motions of the head, 
that Christy was as positive as any old wrong-headed German 
coinmander. 
"■ As. v^p. -vero pran-^ing up thfe <"Kiiiev jnp.ino'^.v, overy ponnd-we 



hO braqebmidqb hall. 



\ 



mado was answered by a distinct echo, from the sunny wall of 
an old building, that lay on the opposite margin of the 
stream ; and I paused to hsten to this "spirit of a sound," which 
seems to love such quiet and beautiful, places. The parson in- 
formed me that this was the ruin of an ancient gi'ange, and 
was supposed, by the country people, to be haunted by a dob- 
bie, a Idnd of rural sprite, something like Robin-good-fellow. 
They often fancied the echo to be the voice of the dobbie 
ans veering them, and were rather shy of disturbing it after 
dark. He added, that the Sqmre was very careful of this ruin, 
on account of the superstition connected with it. As I con- 
sidered this local habitation of an " airy nothing, " I called to mind 
the fine description of an echo in Webster's Duchess of Malfry : 

" Ycmd side o' th' river lies a wall, 

Piece of a cloister, which, in iBy opinion, 
Gives the best echo that you ever heard: 
80 plain in the distinction of our words, 
That many have supposed it a spirit 
That answers." 

The parson went on to comment on a pleasing and fanciful « 
appellation which the Jews of old gave to the echo, which they 
called Bath-kool, that is to say, ' ' the daughter of the voice ;" 
they considered it an oracle, supplying in the second temple 
the want of the urim and thuromim, with which the first was 
honoured.* The little man was just entering very largely and 
learnedly upon the subject, when we were staitled by a prodi- 
gious bawling, shouting, and yelping. A flight of crows, 
alarmed by the approach of our forces, had suddenly risen 
from a meadow ; a cry was put up by the rabble rout on foot 
-—"Now, Christy! now is your time, Christy!" The Squire 
and Master Simon, who were beating up the river banks in 
quest of a heron, called out eagerly to Christy to keep quiet ; 
the old man, vexed and bewildered by the confusion of voices, 
completely lost his head; in his flurry he slipped off the hood, 
cast, off the falcon, and away flew the crows, and away soar^^d 
the hawk. 

I had paused on a rising ground, close to Lady Lillycraft and 
her escort, from whence I had a good view of the sport. I was 
pleased with the appearance of the party in the meadow, rid- 
ing along in the direction that the bird flew ; their bright beam- 
ing faces turned up to the bright skies as they watched the 

* Eekkpv's Mot; Je euchaute, 



HA WRING. 81 

game ; the attendants on foot scampering along, looking up, and 
calling out ; and the dogs bounding and yelping with clamorous 
sympathy. 

The hawk had singled out a quarry from among the cariion 
crew. It was cmious to see the efforts of the two birds to .^t 
above each other; one to make the fatal swoop, the o'hcr to 
avoid it. Now they crossed athwart a bright feathery cloud, 
and now they were against the cleai* blue sky. I confess, be- 
ing no sportsman, I was more interested for the poor bird tha' 
was striving for its life, than for the hawk that was playing 
the part of a mercenary soldier. At length the hawk got the 
upper hand, and made a rushing stoop at her quarry, but the 
latter made as sudden a surge downwards, and slanting up 
again, evaded the blow, screaming and making the best of his 
way for a dry tree on the brow of a neighboming hill ; while the 
hawk, disappointed of her blow, soared up again into the air, 
and appeared to be " raiding" off. It was in vain old Christy 
called, and whistled, and endeavoured to lure her down : she 
paid no regard to him ; and, indeed, his calls were drowned in 
the shouts and yelps of the army of militia that had followed 
him into the field. 

Just then an exclamation from Lady Lillycraft made me 
turn my head. I beheld a complete confusion among the 
sportsmen in the little vale below us. They were galloping 
and running towards the edge of a bank ; and I was shocked to 
see Miss Templeton's horse galjoping at large without his rider. 
I rode to the place to which the othere were hurrying, and 
when I reached the bank, which almost overhung the stream, 
I saw at the foot of it, the fair Julia, pale, bleeding, and appar- 
ently hfeless, supported in the arms of her frantic lover. 

In galloping heedlessly along, with her eyes turned upward, 
she had unwa,rily approached too near the bank ; it had given 
way with her, and she and her horse had been precipitated to 
the pebbled margin of the liver. 

I never saw greater consternation. The captain was dis- 
tracted; Lady Lillycraft fainting; the Squire in dismay, and 
Master Simon at his wit's end. The beautiful creature at length 
showed signs of returning life; she opened her eyes; looked 
around her upon the anxious gi'oup, and comprehending in a 
moment the nature of the scene, gave a sweet smile, and put- 
ting her hand in her lover's, exclaimed, feebly, "I am not much 
hurt, Guy !" I coujci have taken her to my heart for that sin- 
gle exclamation. 



82- BRACEBRIDQE HALL. 

It was found, indeed, that she had escaped almost miracri^ 
lously, with a contusion on the head, a sprained ankle, an 
some slight bruises. After her wound was stanched, she ws 
taken to a neighbouring cottage, untn a carriage could be suni' 
?noned to convey her home ; and when this had arrived, the 
cavalcade which had issued forth so gayly on this enterprise,; 
returned slowly and pensively to the Hall. 

I had been charmed by the generous spirit shown by thig 
young creature, who, amidst pain and danger, had been anxious 
only to relieve the distress of those around her. I was grati- 
fied, therefore, by the universal concern displayed by the 
domestics on our return. They came crowding down thq 
avenue, each eager to render assistance. The butler stood; 
ready with some curiously dehcate cordial : the old housekeepei! 
was provided with half-a-dozen nostrums, prepared by her own 
hands, according to the family receipt-book ; while her niece, 
the melting Phoebe, having no other way of assisting, stood 
wringing her hands, and weeping aloud. 

The most material effect that is likely to follow this accident, 
is a postponement of the nuptials, which were close at hand. 
Though I commiserate the impatience of the captain on that 
account, yet I shall not otherwise be sorry at the delay, as it 
wlQ give me a better opportunity of studying the characters 
here assembled, with wliich I grow more and more entertained. 

I cannot but perceive that the worthy Squire is quite discon- 
certed at the imlucky result of his hawking experiment, and 
this unfortunate illustration of iiis eulogy on female equitation. 
Old Christy, too, is very waspish, having been sorely twitted J 
by Master Simon for having let his hawk fly at carrion. As % 
to the falcon, in the confusion occasioned by the fail* Juha's 
disaster, the bird was totally forgotten. I make no doubt she 
has made the best of her way back to the hospitable Hall of Sir 
Watkyn Williams Wynne; and may very possibly, at this 
present writing, be pluming her wings among the breezy 
bowers of Wynnstay. 



ST. MARK'S EVL:. 83 



ST. MARK'S EVE. 

O 't is a fearful thing to be no more. 

Or if to be. to wander after death ! 

To walk as spirits do, in brakes all day, 

An^' when the darkness comes, to glide in paths 

That lead to graves; and in the silent vault, 

Wliere lies your own pale shroud, to hover o'er it, 

Striving to enter your fox'bidden corpse.— Dryden. 

The conversation this evening at the supper-table took a 
curious turn, on the subject of a superstition, formerly very 
prevalent in this part of the country, relative to the present 
night of the year, which is the Eve of St. l^Iark's. It was be- 
lieved, the parson informed us, that if any one would watch in 
the church porch on this eve, for thi-ee successive yeai-s, fi'om 
eleven to one o'clock at night, he would see, on the third year, 
the shades of those of the parish who were to die in the course 
of the year, pass by him into church, clad in their usual ap- 
parel. 

Dismal as such a sight would be, he assured us that it was 
formerly a frequent thing for persons to make the necessary 
vigils. He had known more than one instance in his time. 
One old woman, who pretended to have seen this phantom pro- 
cession, was an object of great awe for the whole year after- 
wards, and caused much uneasiness and mischief. If she shook 
her head mysteriously at a person, it v/as like a death-warrant ; 
and she had nearly caused the death of a sick person, by look- 
ing ruefully in at the window. 

There was also an old man, not many years since, of a sullen, 
melancholy temperament, who had kept two vigils, and began 
to excite some talk in the village, when, fortunately for the 
piiblic comfort, he died shortly after Ms third watching; very 
probably from a cold that he had taken, as the night was tem- 
pestuous. It was reported about the village, however, that he 
had seen his own phantom pass by him into tbe church. 

This led to the mention of another superstition of an equally 
strange and melancholy kind, which, however, is chiefly con- 
fined to Wales. It is respecting what are called corpse-candles, 
little wandering fires, of a pale bluish light, that move about 
like taners in the open air, and are supposed to designate the 
way some corpse is to go. One was seen at Lanyler. late at 
mght, hovering un and down, along tho bank of the Istwith, 



84 BUACBBRIDGE HALi.. 



and was watched by the neighbours until they were tired, an( 
went to bed. Not long afterwards there came a comely coun' 
try lass, from Montgomeryshire, to see her friends, who dwelt 
on the opposite side of the river. She thought to ford the 
stream at the very place where the light had been first seen, 
but was dissuaded on accoimt of the height of the flood. She 
walked to and fro along the bank, just where the candle had 
moved, waiting for the subsiding of the water. She at length 
endeavored to cross, but the poor girl was drowned in the 
attempt.* 

There was something mournful in this Uttle anecdote of rural 
superstition, that seemed to affect all the listeners. Indeed, it 
is curious to remark how completely a conversation of the kind 
will absorb the attention of a circle, and sober down its gayety, 
however boisterous. By degrees I noticed that every one was 
leaning forward over the table, with eyes earnestly fixed upon 
the parson ; and at the mention of corpse-candles which had 
been seen about the chamber of a young lady who died on the 
eve of her wedding-day. Lady Lillycraft turned pale. 

I have witnessed the introduction of stories of the kind into 
various evening circles ; they were often commenced in jest, 
and listened to with smiles ; but I never knew the most gay or 
the most enlightened of audiences, that were not, if the con- 
versation continued for any length of time, completely and 
solemnly interested in it. There is, I beheve, a degree of super- 
stition lurking in every mind: and I doubt if any one can 
thoroughly examine all his secret notions and impulses, with- 
out detecting it, hidden, perhaps, even from himself. It seems, 
in fact, to be a part of our nature, like instinct in animals, 
acting independently of our reason. It is often found existing 
in lofty natures, especially those that are poetical and r:rT>iring. 
A great and extraordinary poet of our day, whose life and 
writings evince a mind subject to powerful exaltatiors, is said 
to believe in omens and secret intimations. Caesar, it is v/ell 
known, was greatly under the influence of such belief; and 
Napoleon had his good and evil days, and his presiding star. 

As to the worthy parson. I liave no doubt that he is strongly 
inclined to superstition. He is naturally credulous, and passes 
so much of his time searching out popular traditions and super- 
natural tales, that }u!s mind has probably become infected by 
them. He has lately been immersed in the Demonolatria of 






* Aubrey'.: SIIrfceL 



ST. MARK'S EVK Bo 

Nichola^s Kemi^s, concerning supernatural occiii-rences in Lor- 
raine, and the writings of Joachimus Camerius, called by Vos- 
sius the Phoenix of Germany ; and he entertains the ladies with 
stories from them, that make them almost afraid to go to bed 
at night. I have been charmed myself with some of the wild 
little superstitions which he has adduced from Blefkenius, 
Scheffe]\ and others, such as those of the Laplanders about the 
domestic spirits which wake them at night, and summon them 
to go and fish ; of Thor, the deity of thunder, who has power of 
hfe and death, health and sickness, and who, armed with the 
raiobow, shoots liis arrows at those evil demons that live on 
the tops of rocks and mountains, and infest the lakes ; of the 
Juhles or Juhlaiolket, vagrant troops of spirits, which roam 
the air, and wander up and down by forests and mountaias, 
and the moonlight sides of hills. 

The parson never openly professes his belief in ghosts, but I 
have remarked that he has a suspicious way of pressing great 
names into the defence of supernatural doctrines, and making 
philosophers and saints fight for him. He expatiates at large 
on the opinions of the ancient philosophei's about larves, or noc- 
turnal phantoms, the spirits of the wicked, which wandered 
like exiles about the earth; and about those spiritual beings 
which abode in the air, but descended occasionally to earth, and 
mingled among mortals, acting as agents between them and the 
gods. He quotes also from Philo the rabbi, the contemporary 
of the apostles, and, according to some, the friend of St. Paul, 
who says that the air is full of spuits of different ranks ; some 
destined to exist for a time in mortal bodies, from which being 
emancipated, they pass and repass between heaven and earth, 
as a5:ents or messengers in the service of the deity. 

But the worthy little man assumes a bolder tone, when he 
quotes from the fathers of the church ; such as St. Jerome, who 
gives it as the opinion of all the doctors, that the air is filled 
"^vdth powers opposed to each other ; and Lactantius, who says 
that corrupt and dangerous spirits wander over the earth, and 
seek to console themselves for their own fall by effecting the 
min of the human race ; and Clemens Alexandrinus, who is oi 
opinion that the souls of the blessed have knowledge of what 
passes among men, the same as angels have. 

I am now alone in my chamber, but these themes have taken 
such hold of my imagination, that I caimot sleep. The room in 
which I sit is just fitted to foster such a state of mind. The 
walls are hung with tapestry, the figures of which are faded, 



gg BRACEBJilDGE HALL. 1 

and look like unsubstantial shapes melting away from sight. 
Over the fire-place is the portrait of a lady, who, according"to 
the housekeeper's' tradition, pmed to death for the loss of "her 
lover in the battle of Blenheim. Slie has a most pale and plaih- 
tive count ehance, and seems to fix her eyes mournfully upon 
me. The family have long since retired; I have heard their 
steps die away, and the distant doors clap to after them. The 
murmur of voices, and the peal of remote laughter, no longer 
reach the ear. The clock from the church, in which so many 
of the former inhabitants of this house he buried, has chimed 
the awful hour of midnight. 

I have sat by the window and mused upon the dusky land- 
scape, watching the lights disappearing, one by one, from, the 
distant village ; and the moon rising in her silent majesty, and 
leading up all the silver pomp of heaven. As I have gazed upon 
these quiet groves and shadowy lawns, silvered over, and im- 
perfectly lighted by streaks of dewy moonshine, my mind ha,s 
been crowded by "thick-coming fancies" concerning those 
spiritual beings which 

"walk the earth 

Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep." 

Are there, indeed, such beings? Is this space between us and 
the deity filled up by innumerable orders of spiritual beings, 
forming the same gradations between the human soul and di- 
vine perfection, that we see prevailing from humanity down- J 
v/ards to the meanest insect? It is a sublime and beautiful doc- " 
trine, inculcated by the early fathers, that there are guardian 
angels appointed to watch over cities and nations ; to take care ^ 
of the v/elfare of good men, and to guard and guide the steps \ 
of helpless infancy. "Nothiijg," says St. Jerome, "gives us a . 
greater idea of the dignity of our soul, than that God has given ; 
each of us, at the moment of our birth, an angel to have care : 

of it?' "' ^ / ' '";■- ^ 

Even the doctrine of departed spu-its returning to visit the 
scenes and beings which were dear to them during the body's 
existence, though it has been debased hj the absurd supersti- 
tions 01 the vulgar, in itself is awfully solemn and sublime. 
However lightly it may be ridiculed, yet the attention involun- 
tarily yielded to it whenever it is made the subject of serious 
discussion ; its prevalence in all ages and countries, and even 
among newly-discovered nations, that have had no previous in- 
torehaxige of thought with other parto pf trie vrorM. prove it to 



ST. MARK'S EVE. 87 

he onQ of those mysteries, and almost instinctive beliefs, to 
which, if left to ourselves, we should naturally incline. 
'" In spite of all the pride of reason and piiilosophy, a vague 
doubt will still lurk in the mind, and perhaps will never be per- 
fectly eradicated; as it is concerning a matter that does not 
aximit of positive demonstration. Every thing connected with 
our spiritual nature is full of doubt and difficulty. "We are 
fearfully and wonderfully made ;" we are suiToundod by mys- 
teiies, and we are mysteries even to ourselves. Who yet has 
been able to comprehend and describe the nature of the soul, 
its connection Avith the body, or in what part of the frame it is 
situated? We know merely that it does exist; but whence it 
came, and when it entered into us, and how it is retained, and 
where it is seated, and how it operates, are all matters of mere 
speculation, and contradictory theories. If, then, we are thus 
ignorant of tliis spiritual essence, even w^hile it forms a part of 
ourselves, and is continually present to our consciousness, how 
can we pretend to ascertain or to deny its powei-s and opera- 
tions when released from its fleshy prison-house? It is more 
the manner, therefore, in v\^hich this superstition has been de- 
graded, than its intrinsic al^siu'dity, that has brought it into 
contempt. Eaise it above the frivolous purposes to which it 
has been applied, strip it of the gloom and horror with w^hich it 
has been surrounded, and there is none of the whole circle of 
visionary creeds that could more delightfully elevate the im- 
agination, or more tenderly affect the heart. It would become 
a sovereign comfort at the bed of death, soothing the bitter 
tear wrung from us by the agony of our mortal separation. 
What could be more consohng than the idea, that the souls of 
those w^honi we once loved were permitted to return and w^atch 
over our welfare?— that affectionate and guardian spirits sat by 
our pillows when we slept, keeping a vigil over our most help- 
less hours?— that beauty and innocence which had languished 
into the tomb, yet smiled unseen around us, reveahng them- 
selves in those blest dreams wherein we hve over again the 
hours of past endearment ? A belief of this kind w^ould, I should 
think, be a new incentive to \drtiie ; rendering us circumspect 
even in our most secret moments, fi-om the idea that those we 
once loved and honoui'ed were invisible witnesses of aU our 
actions. 

It would take away, too. from that lonehness and destitution 
which we are apt to feel more and more as wo sret on in omx tAI- 
griniage througii the wildorneRS of tlii-s woii;], and Mid that 



- g8 ^^^ CEBRID&E HALL. 

those who set foi-ward with tis, lovingly and cheerily, on the 
journey, have, one by one, dropped away from onr side. Place 
the superstition in this light, and I confess I should like to be a 
believer in it. I see nothing in it that is incompatible with the 
tender and merciful nature of our reUgion, nor revolting to the 
wishes and affections of the heart. 

There are departed beings that I have loved as I never again 
shall love in this world; — ^that have loved me as I never again 
shall be loved! If such beings do ever retain in their blessed 
spheres the attachments which they felt on earth — if they take 
an interest in the poor concerns of transient mortality, and arc 
permitted to hold communion with those whom they have loved 
on earth, I feel as if now, at this deep hour of night, in this 
silence and solitude, I could receive their visitation with the 
most solemn, but unalloyed delight. 

In truth, such visitations would be too happy for this world ; 
they would be incompatible with the nature of this imperfect 
state of being. We are here placed in a mere scene of spiritual 
thraldom and restraint. Our souls are shut in and limited by 
bounds and barriers ; shackled by mortal infirmities, and sub- 
ject to all the gross unpediments of matter. In vain would 
they seek to act indepcndentlj^ of the body, and to mingle 
together in spkitual mtercourse. They can only act here 
through their fleshy organs. Their earthly loves are made up 
of transient embraces and long separations. The most intimat-e 
friendship, of what brief and scattered portions of time does it 
consist ! We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a 
few words and looks of kindness, and we rejoice together for a 
few short moments— and then days, months, years intervene, 
and we see and know nothing of each other. Or, granting that 
we dwell together for the full season of this our mortal nf e, the 
grave soon closes its gates between us, and then our spirits are 
doomed to remain in separation and widowhood: until they 
meet again in that more perfect state of being, where soul will 
dwell with soul in blissful communion, and there will be neither 
death, nor absence, nor any thing else to interrupt our fehcity. 



%* In the foregoing paper, I have alluded to the writings of 
some of the old Jewish rabbins. They abound with wild 
theories ; but among them are many truly poetical flights ; and 
their ideas are often very beautifully expressed. Their specu- 
lations on the nacui-e oi angels are curious and fanciful, thougii 
much resembhng the doctrines of the ancieiit philosophei'S. V:\ 



GENTILITY. 89 

the writings of the Rabbi Eleazer is an account of the tempta- 
tion of our first parents, and the fall of the angels, which the 
parson pointed out to me as having probably furnished some of 
the groundwork for " Paradise Lost." 

According to Eleazer, the ministering angels said to the 
Deity, ** What is there in man, that thou makest liim of such 
importance ? Is he any thing else than vanity ? for he can 
scarcely reason a little on terrestrial things. " To which God 
repUed, "Do you imagine that I will be exalted and glorified 
only by you here above ? I am the same below that I am here. 
Who is there among you that can call all the creatures by their 
names ?" There was none found among them that could do so. 
At that moment Adam arose, and called all the creatures by 
their names. Seeing which, the ministering angels said among 
themselves, " Let us consult together how we may cause Adam 
to sin against the Creator, otherwise he will not fail to become 
our master. " 

Sammael, who was a great prince in the heavens, was present 
at this council, with the saints of the first order, and the sera- 
phim of six bands. Samniael chose several out of the twelve 
orders to accompany him, and descended below, for the purpose 
of visiting all the creatures which God had created. He found 
none more cunning and more fit to do evil than the serpent. 

The Eabbi then treats of the seduction and the fall of man ; 
of the consequent fall of the demon, and the punishment which 
God inflicted on Adam, Eve, and the serpent. " He made them 
all come before him ; pronounced nine maledictions on Adam 
and Eve, and condemned them to suffer death ; and he precipi- 
tated Sammael and all his band from heaven. He cut off the 
feet of the serpent, which had before the figure of a camel 
(Sammael having been mounted on liim), and he cursed him 
among all beasts and animals." 



GENTILITY. 



' True Gentrie standeth in the trade 

Of virtuous life, not in the fleshy line: * 

For bloud is kait, but Gentrie is divine. 

—Mirror for Magistrates. 

I HAVE mentioned some peculiarities of the Squire in the 
^fJu'-atior! of his r^o-ns: bn.t I woiild not have it, thought that his 



90 BBAGEBEIDGE HALL. 

instructions were directed cliiefly to their personal accomplish- 
ments. He took great pains also to form their minds, and to 
inculcate what he calls good old English principles, such as are 
laid down in the writings of Peachem and his contemporaries. 
There is one author of whom he cannot speak without indigna- 
tion, which is Chesterfield. He avers that he did much, for a 
time, to injure the true national character, and to introduce, 
instead of open, manly sincerity, a hollow, perfidious courth- 
ness. "His maxims," he afiirms, "were calculated to chill 
the delightful enthusiasm of youth ; to make them ashamed of 
that romance which is the 'dawn of generous manhood, and to 
impart to them a cold polish and a premature worldliness. 

" Many of Lord Chesterfield's maxims would make a young 
man a mere man of pleasure ; but an English gentleman should 
not be a mere man of pleasure. He has no right to such selfish 
indulgence. His ease, his leisure, his opulence, are debts due 
to his country, which he must ever stand ready to discharge. 
He should be a man at all points; simple, frank, courteous, 
intelhgent, accomplished, and informed ; upright, intrepid, and 
disinterested ; one that can mingle among freemen ; that can 
cope with statesmen ; that can champion his country and its 
rights, either at home or abroad. In a country like England, 
where there is such free and unbounded scope for the exertion 
of intellect, and where opinion and example have such weight 
^vith the people, every gentleman of fortune and leisure should 
feel himself bound to employ himself m some way towards 
I)romoting the prosperity or glory of the nation. In a country 
where intellect and action are tranmaeUed and restrained, men 
of rank and fortune may become idlers and triflers with im- 
punity; but an English coxcomb is inexcusable; and this, 
perhaps, is the reason why he is the most offensive and insup- 
portable coxcomb in the world." 

The Squire, as Frank Bracebridge informs me, would ofcen 
hold forth in this manner to his sons, when they were about 
leaving the paternal roof ; one to travel abroad, one to go to 
the army, and one to the university. He used to have them 
with him in the hbrary, which is hung with the portraits of 
Sidney, Surrey, Ealeigh, Wyat, and others. "Look at those 
models of true English gentlemen, my sons," he would say 
%vith enthusiasm ; "those were men that wreathed the graces 
of the most dehcate and refined taste around the stern virtues 
of the soldier; that mingled what was gentle and gracious, 
'With -what was lvnrd3'^ and maiil}'; that' poB^^esriod'- the "trui? 



GENTTTJTT. 91 

chivalry of spirit, ^hich is the exalted essence of manhood. 
They are the lights by which the youth of the country should 
array themselves. They were the patterns and idols of their 
country at home; they were the illustrators of its dignity 
jtbfHXid. ' Surrey,' says Camden, ' was the first nobleman that 
illustrated his high birth with the beauty of learning. He wai5 
acknowledged to be the gailantest man, the politest lover, and 
the completest gentleman of his time.' And as to "Wyal. his 
friend Surrey most amiably testifies of him, that his person 
was majestic and beautilul, his visage ' stern and mild ;' that 
he sung, and played the lute with remarkable sweetness ; spoke 
foreign languages with grace and fluency, and possessed an 
inexhaustible fund of wit. And see what a higli commenda- 
tion is passed upon these illustrious friends : ' They were the 
two chieftains, who, having travelled into Italy, and there 
tasted the sweet and stately measures and style of the Italian 
poetry, gi-eatly polished our rude and homely manner of vulgar 
poetry from what it had been before, and therefore may be 
justly called the reforiners of our English poetry and style.' 
And Sir Pliilip Sidney, who has left us such monumenis of 
elegant thought, and generous sentiment, and who illustrated 
his chivalrous spirit so gloriously in the field. And Sir Waiter 
Haleigh, the elegant courtier, the intrepid soldier, the enter- 
prising discoverer, the enlightened philosopher, the magnani- 
mous martyr. These are the men for English gentlemen to 
study. Chesterfield, with his cold and courtly maxims, would 
have cliilled and impoverished such spirits. He would have 
blighted aU the budding romance of their temperaments. 
Sidney would never have written his Arcadia, nor Surrey 
have challenged the world in vindication of the beauties of his 
Geraldine. "These are the men, my sons," the Squire will 
continue, "that show to what our national character maybe 
exalted, when its strong and powerful qualities are duly 
wrought up and refined. The sohdest bodies are capable of 
the highest polish; and there is no character that may be 
wrought to a more exquisite and unsullied brightness, than 
that of the true English gentleman." 

When Guy was about to depart for the army, the Squire 
again took him aside, and gave him a long exhortation. He 
warned him against that affectation of cool-blooded indiffer- 
ence, which he was told was cultivated by the young British 
officers, among whom it was a study to "sink the soldier" in 
the mere man of fashion. "A soldier," said ho, "without 



gg BRAGETmWGE HALL. 

pride and enthusiasm in his profession, is a mere sanguinary 
hireling. Nothing distinguishes him from the mercenary 
bravo, but a spirit of patriotism, or a thirst for glory. It is the 
fashion now-a-days, my son," said he, "to laugh at the spirit of 
chivalry; when that spirit is really extinct, the profession of 
the soldier becomes a mere trade of blood." He then set 
before him the conduct of Edward the Black Prince, who is his 
mirror of chivalry ; valiant, generous, affable, humane ; gal- 
lant in the field. But when he came to dwell on his courtesy 
toward his prisoner, the king of France ; how he received him 
in his tent, rather as a conqueror than as a captive ; attended 
on him at table lj.ke one of his retinue ; rode uncovered beside 
him on his entry into London, mounted on a common palfrey, 
while his prisoner was mounted in state on a white steed of 
stately bea^uty ; the tears of enthusiasm stood in the old gen- 
tleman's eyes. 

Finally, on taking leave, the good Squire put in his son's 
hands, as a manual, one of his favourite old volumes, the life of 
the Chevaher Bayard, by Godef roy ; on a blank page of which 
he had written an extract from the Mort^ d' Arthur, containing 
the eulogy of Sir Ector over the body of Sir Launcelot of the 
Lake, which the Squire considers as comprising the excellen- 
cies of a true soldier. "Ah, Sir Launcelot! thou wert head 
of all Christian knights ; now there thou liest : thou wert never 
matched of none earthly knights-hands. And thou wert the 
curtiest knight that ever bare shield. And thou wert the 
truest friend to thy lover that ever bestrood horse ; and thou 
wert the truest lover of a sinf uU man that ever loved woman. 
And thou wert the kindest man that ever strook with sword ; 
and thou wert the goodliest person that ever came among the 
presse of knights. And thou wert the meeliest man and the 
gentlest that ever eate in hall among ladies. And thou wert 
the sternest knight to thy m.ortal foe that ever put speare in 
the rest." 



FORTUNE- TELLING. 93 



FORTUNE-TELLING. 

Each city, each town, aud every village, 

Affords us either an alms or pillage. 

And if the weather be cold and raw. 

Then in a barn we tumble on straw. 

If warm and fair, by yea-cock and nay-cock, 

The fields will afford us a hedge or a hay-cock. — Merry Beggars. 

As I was walking one evening with the Oxonian, Master 
Simon, and the general, in a meadow not far from the village, 
we heard the sound of a fiddle, rudely played, and looking in 
the direction from whence it came, we saw a thread of smoke 
curling up from among the trees. The sound of music is 
always attractive ; for, wherever there is music, there is good- 
humour, or good-will. We passed along a footpath, and had a 
peep through a break in the hedge, at the musician and his 
party, whe^i the Oxonian gave us a wink, and told us that if 
we would follow him we should have some sport. 

It proved to be a gipsy encampment, consisting of three or 
four Mttle cabins, or tents, made of blankets and sail-cloth, 
spread over hoops that were stuck in the ground. It was on 
one side of a green lane, close under a hawthorn hedge, with 
a broad beech-tree spreading above it. A small rill tinlded 
along" close by, through the fresh sward, that looked like a 
carpet. 

A tea-kettle was hanging by a crooked piece of iron, over a 
fire made from dry sticks and leaves, and two old gipsies, in 
red cloaks, sat crouched on the grass, gossiping over their 
evening cup of tea ; for these creatm-es, though they live in the 
open air, have their ideas of fireside comforts. There wei-e 
two or three children sleeping on the straw with which the 
tents were littered ; a couple of donkeys were grazing in the 
lane, and a thievish-looking dog. was lying before the fire. 
Some of the younger gipsies were dancing to the music of a 
fiddle, played by a tall, slender stripling, in an old frock-coat, 
with a peacock's feather stuck in his hat-band. 

As we approached, a gipsy girl. v,^ith a pair of fine, roguish 
eyes, came up, and, as usual, offered to tell our fortunes. I 
could not but admire a certain degree of slattern elegance about 
the baggage. Her long black silken hair was curiously plaited 
in numerous small braids, and negligently put up in a pic- 



94 BRAGEBRIDGE HALL, 

turesqae style tliat a painter might have been ]Droud to have 
de^^sed. 

Her dress was of figured chintz, rather ragged, and not over- 
clean but of a variety of most harmonious and agreeable colours ; 
for these beings have a singularly fine eye for colours. Her 
straw hat was in her hand, and a red cloak thrown over one arm. 

The Oxonian offered at once to have his fortune told, and the 
girl began with the usual voiubihty of her race ; but he drew 
her on one side, near the hedge, as he said he had no idea of 
having his secrets overheard. I saw he was talking to her 
instead of she to him, and by his glancing towards us now and 
then, that he was giving the baggage some private hints. 
When they returned to us, he assumed a very serious air. 
"Zounds!" said he, "it's very astonishing how these creatures 
come by their knov/ledge ; this girl has told me some things 
that I thought no one knevf but myself !" The girl now assailed 
the general: "Come, your honour," said she, " I see by your 
face you're a lucky man ; but you're not happy in your mind ; 
you're not, indeed, sir; but have a good heart, and give me a 
good piece of silver, and I'll tell you a nice fortune." 

The general had received all her approaches Avith a banter, 
and had suffered her to get hold of his hand; but at the 
mention of the piece of silver, he hemmed, looked grave, and, 
turning to us, asked if we had not better continue our walk. 
"Come, my master," said the gM, archly, "you'd not be in 
such a hurry, if you knew all that I could tell you about a fair 
lady that has a notion for you. Come, sir; old love burns 
strong; there's many a one comes to see weddings, that go 
away brides themselves.""— Here the girl whispered something 
in a low voice, at which the general coloured up, was a little flut- 
tered, and suffered himself to be drawn aside under the hedge, 
where he appeared to listen to her with great earnestness, and 
at the end paid her half-a-crown with the air of a man that 
has got the worth of his money. The girl next made her attack 
upon Master Simon, who, however, was too old a bird to be 
caught, knowing that it would end in an attack upon his purse, 
about which he is a little sensitive. As he has a great notion, 
however, of being considered a royster, he chucked her under 
the chin, played her off with rather broad jokes, and put on 
something of the rake-helly air, that we see now and then 
assumed on the stage, by the sad-boy gentleman of the old 
school. " Ah, your honour," said the girl, with a malicious leer, 
"you were not in such a tantrum la^t year, wben I told you 



FORTUNE-TELLING. 95 

about the widow, you know who ; but if you had taken a friend's 
advice, you'd never have come away from Doncaster races with 
a flea in your ear!" There was a secret sting in this speech, 
that seemed quite to disconcert Master Simon. He jerked 
away his hand in a pet, smacked his wliip, whistled to his dogs, 
and intimated that it was high time to go home. The girl, how- 
ever, was detei-mined not to lose her harvest. She now turned 
iJpon me, and, as I have a weakness of spirit where there is a 
pretty face concerned, she soon wheedled me out of my money, 
and, in return, read me a fortune; which, if it prove true, and I 
am determined to believe it, will make me one of the luckiest 
men in the chronicles of Cupid. 

I saw that the Oxonian was at the bottom of all this oracular 
mystery, and was disposed to amuse himself with the general, 
whose tender approaches to the widow have attracted the 
notice of the wag. I was a little curious, however, to know 
the meaning of the dark hints which had so suddenly discon- 
certed Master Simon; and took occasion to fall in the rear with 
the Oxonian on our way home, when ho laughed heartily at my 
questions, and gave me ample information on the subject. 

The truth of the matter is, that Master Simon has met mth 
a sad rebuff since my Christmas visit to the Hall. He used at 
that time to be j-oked about a widow, a fine dashing woman, as 
he privately informed me. I had supposed the pleasure he 
betrayed on these occasions resulted from the usual fondness 
of old bachelors for being teased about getting married, and 
about flirting, and being fickle and false-hearted. I am assured, 
however, that Master Simon had really persuaded himself the 
widow had a kindness for him ; in consequence of which he 
had been at some extraordinary expense in new clothes, and had 
actually got Frank Bracebridge to order him a coat from Stultz. 
He began to throw out hints about the importance of a man's 
settling himself in life before he gi^ew old ; he would look gi^ave, 
whenever the widoAv and matrimony were mentioned in the 
same sentence ; and privately asked the opinion of the Squire 
and parson about the prudence of marrying a widow with a 
rich jointure, but who had several children. 

An important member of a great family connexion cannot 
harp much upon the theme of matrimony, without its taking 
wind ; and it soon got buzzed about that Mr. Simon Bracebridge 
was actually gone to Don caster races, with a new horse; but 
that he meant to return in a curricle Avith a lady by his side. 
Master Simon did, indeed, go to the races, and tlrnt with a new 



00 BHACEBIilDGE HALL. 

horse ; and the dashing widow did make her appearance in a 
curricle ; but it was unfortunately driven by a strapping young 
Irish dragoon, with whom even Master Simon's self-complacency 
would not allow him to venture into competition, and to whom 
she was married shortly after. 

It was a matter of sore chagrin to Master Simon for several 
months, having never before been fully committed. The dull- 
est head in the family had a joke upon him ; and there is no 
one that likes less to be bantered than an absolute joker. He 
took refuge for a time at Lady Lillycraft's, until the matter 
should blow over ; and occupied himself by looking over her 
accounts, regulating the village choir, and inculcating loyalty 
into a pet bulfinch, by teaching him to whistle ' ' God save the 
King." 

He has now pretty nearly recovered from the mortification ; 
holds up his head, and laughs as much as any one ; again affects 
to pity married men, and is particularly facetious about widows, 
when Lady Lillycraft is not by. His only time of trial is when 
the general gets hold of him, who is infinitely heavy and per- 
severing in his waggery, and will interweave a duU joke through 
the various topics of a whole dinner-time. Master Simon often 
parries these attacks by a stanza from his old work of "Cupid's 
Sohcitor for Love:" 

" 'Tis in vain to wooe a widow over lonff, 

In once or twice her mind you may perceive; 
Widows a-re subtle, be they old or young, 
And by theii- wiles young men they will deceive." 



LOYE-CHARMS. 



Come, do not weep, my girl, 

Forget him, pretty Pensiveness; there will 

Come others, every day, as good as he.— Sir J. Stjckling. 

The approach of a wedding in a family is always an event of 
gi^eat importance, but particularly so in a household like this, 
in a retired part of the country. Master Simon, who is a 
pervading spirit, and, through means of the butler and house- 
keeper, knows every thing that goes forward, tells me that 
the maid-servants are continually trying theii* fortunes, and 
that the servants'-hall lias of late been quite a scene of incan- 
tatioiL 



LOVKAJUAUMS. O;- 

It is ami: dnp: to notice how the odcUtieB of tlie head of a 
family flor- down through all the branches. The Sqiure, in the 
indulgence of his love of every thing that smacks of old times, 
has hcl'^ so many grave conversations with the parson at table, 
about popular superstitions and traditional rites, that they 
have been carried from the parlour to the kitchen by the listen- 
ing domestics, and, being apparently sanctioned by such high 
authorit-y, the whole house has become infected by them. 

The servants are all versed in the common modes of trj;ing 
luck, and the charms to insure constancy. They read tfieir 
fortunes by drawing strokes in the ashes, or by repeating a 
form of words, and looking in a pail of water. St. ^Mark's Eve, 
I am told, w^asabusy time -with them ; being an appointed night 
for certain mystic ceremonies. Several of them sowed hem]> 
seed to be reaped by their true lovers ; and they even ventured 
upon the solemn and fearful preparation of the dumb-cake. 
This must be done fasting, and in silence. The ingredients are 
handed down in traditional form: " An eggshell full of salt, an 
eggshell full of malt, and an eggshell full of barley-meal. " When 
the cake is ready, it is put upon a pan over the fire, and the 
future husband will appear, turn the cake, and retire ; but if a 
■word is spoken or a fast is broken during this awful ceremony, 
there is no knowing what horrible consequences would ensue! 

The experiments, in the present instance, came to no result ; 
they that sowed the hemp-seed forgot the magic rhyme that 
they were to pronounce— so the true lover never appeared ; and 
as to the dumb-cake, what between the awful stillness they had 
to keep, and the awfulness of the midnight hour, their hearts 
failed them when they had put the cake in the pan : so that, on 
the striking of the great house-clock in the servants'-hall, tliev' 
were seized with a sudden panic, and ran out of the room, to 
which they did not return until morning, when they found the 
mystic cake buj'nt to a cinder. 

The most persevering at these spells, however, is Phoebe 
Wilkins, the housekeeper's niece. As she is a kind of privi- 
leged personage, and rather idle, she has more time to occupy 
herself with these ma Iters. She has always had her head full 
of love and matrimony. She knows the dream-book by heart, 
and is quite an oracle among the little girls of the family, 
who always come to her to interpret their dreams in the morn- 
ings. , 

During the present goyety of the house, however, the poor 
girl has worn a face lull of trouble ; and, to use the house- 



98 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 

keeper's words, *'has fallen into a sad hystericky way lately.] 
It seems that she was born and brought up in the village^ 
where her father was parish-clerk, and she Vv^as an early play 
mate and sweetheart of young Jack Tibbets. Since she ha| 
come to hve at the Hall, however, her head has been a little 
turned. Being very pretty, and naturally genteel, she h^^ 
been much noticed and indulged ; and being the housekeeper's 
niece, she has held an equivocal station between a servant anc 
a companion. She has learnt something of fashions and notions 
among the young ladies, which have effected quite a metamor- 
phosis; insomuch that her finery at church on Sundays has 
given mortal offence to her former intimates in the village.^ 
This has occasioned the misrepresentations which have 
awakened the implacable family pride of Dame Tibbets. But 
what is worse, Phoebe, having a spice of coquetry in her dis« 
position, showed it on one or two occasions to her lover, whicli 
produced a downright quarrel ; and Jack, being very proud and 
fiery, has absolutely turned his back upon her for several suc- 
cessive Sundays. 

The poor girl is full of sorrow and repentance, and would fain 
make up with her lover ; but he feels his security, and stands 
aloof. In this he is doubtless encouraged by Ms mother, who 
is continually reminding him what he owes to his f aixdly ; for 
this same family pride seems doomed to be the eternal bane of 
lovers. 

As I hate to see a pretty face in trouble, I have felt quite 
concerned for the luckless Phoebe, ever since I heard her story. 
It is a sad thing to be thwarted in love at any time, but par^ 
ticularly so at this tender season of the year, when every livi.: 
thing, even to the very butterfly, is sporting with its ma.te ; am 
the green fields, and the budding groves, and the singing of t' 
birds, and the sweet smell of the flowers, are enough to turn the' 
head of a love-sick girl. - 1 am told- that the coolness of young 
Eeady-Money lies very heavy at poor Phoebe's heart. Instead 
of singing about the house as formerly, she goes about pale and 
sighing, and is apt to break into tears when her companions are 
full of merriment. 

Mrs, Hannah, the vestal gentlewoman of my Lady Liilycraf t, 
has had long talks and walks with Phoebe, up and down the 
avenue of an evening ; and has endeavoured to squeeze some of 
her own verjuice into the other's milky nature. She speaks 
with contempt and abhorrence of the v/hole sex, and advises 
Phoebe to despise all the men as heartily as she does. But 



THE LIBRARY. 09 

Phoebe's loving temper is not to be curdled ; she has no such 
thing as hatred or contempt for mankind in her whole compo 
sition. She has all the simple fondness of heart of poor, weak, 
loving woman ; and her only thoughts at present are how to 
conciliate and reclaim her wayward swain. 

The spells and love-charms, which are matters of sport to the 
other domestics, are serious concerns with this love-stricken 
damsel. She is continually trying her fortune in a variety of 
ways. I am told that she has absolutely fasted for six 
Wednesdays and three Fridays successively, having under- 
stood that it was a sovereign charm to insure being married 
to one's hking within the year. She carries about, also, a lock 
of her sweetheart's hair, and a riband he once gave her, being 
a mode of producing constancy in a lover. She even went so 
fai' as to try her fortune by the moon, which has always had 
much to do with lovers' dreams and fancies. For this purpose, 
she went out in the night of the full moon, knelt on a stone 
in the meadow, and repeated the old traditional rhyme: 

" All hail to thee, moon, all hail to thee; 
I pray thee, good moon, now shqw to me 
The youth who my future husband shall be. " 

When she came back to the house, she was faint and pale, 
and went immediately to bed. The next morning she told the 
porter's wife tliat she had seen some one close by tlie hedge 
in the meadow, which she was sure was young Tibbcts ; at any 
rate, she had dreamt of him all night ; both of which, the old 
dame assured her, were most happy signs. It has since turned 
out that the person in the meadow was old Christy, the hunts- 
man, who was walking his nightly rounds vdih. the great stag- 
hound; so that Phoebe's faith in the charm is completely 
shaken. 



THE LIBRAEY. 



Yesterday the fair Julia made her first appearance down- 
stairs since her accident ; and the sight of her spread an uni- 
versal cheerfulness through the household . She was extremely 
pale, however, and could not walk without pain and difficulty. 
She was assisted, therefore, to a sofa in the hbrary, which is 
pleasant and retired, looking out among trees ; and so quiet, 



100 BRACKBRIDGE HALL. 

that the Httle birds come hopping upon the windows, and peer- 
ing curiously into the apartment. Here several of the family 
gathered round, and devised means to amuse her, and make 
the day pass pleasantly. Lady Lillycraft lamented the want 
of some new novel to while away the time ; and was almost in 
a pet, because the " Author of Waverley" had not produced a 
work for the last three months. 

There was a motion made to call on the parson for some of 
his old legends or ghost stories ; but to this Lady Lillycraft ob- 
jected, as they were apt to give her the vapours. General Har- 
bottle gave a minute account, for the sixth time, of the disaster 
of a friend in India, who had his leg bitten ofE by a tiger, whilst 
he was hunting ; and was proceeding to menace the company 
with a chapter or two about Tippoo Saib. 

At length the captain bethought himself and said, he believed 
he had a manuscript tale lying in one corner of his campaign- 
ing trunk, which, if he could find, and the company were 
desirous, he would read to them. The offer was eagerly 
accepted. He retired, and soon returned with a roll of blotted 
manuscript, in a very gentlemanlike, but nearly illegible, hand, 
and a great part written on cartridge-pptper. 

"It is one of the scribblings, " said he, " of my poor friend, 
Charles Lightly, of the dragoons. He was a curious, romantic, 
studious, fanciful fellow : the favourite, and often the uncon- 
scious butt of his fellow-officers, who entertained themselves 
with his eccentricities. He was in some of the hardest service 
in the peninsula, and distinguished himself by his gallantry. 
When the intervals of duty permitted, he was fond of roving 
about the country, visiting noted places, and was extremely 
fond of Moorish ruins. When at his quarters, he was a great 
scribbler, and passed much of his leisure with his pen in his 
hand. 

"As I was a much younger officer, and a very young man, 
he took me, in a manner, under his care, and we became close 
friends. He used often to read his writings to me, having a 
gi'eat confidence in my taste, for I always praised them. 
Poor fellow ! he was shot down close by me, at Waterloo. Wo 
lay wounded together for some time, during a hard contest 
that took place near at hand. As I was least hurt, I tried to 
relieve him, and to stanch the blood which flowed from a 
wound in his breast. He lay with his head in my lap, and 
looked up thankfully in my face, but shook his head faintly, 
and made a sign that it was all over with liim ; and, indeed, he 



THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 101 

died a few minutes afterwards, just as our men had repulsed 
the enemy, and came to our rehef . I have his favourite dog and 
his pistols to this day, and several of his manuscripts, which he 
gave to me at different times. The one I am now going to 
read, is a tale which he said he wrote in Spam, during the time 
that he lay ill of a wound received at Salamanca." 

We now arranged ourselves to hear the story. The captain 
seated himscK on the sofa, beside the fair Julia, v/ho I had 
noticed to be somewhat affected by the picture he had care- 
lessly drawn of wounds and dangers in a field of battle. She 
now leaned her arm fondly on his shoulder, and her eye glis- 
tened as it rested on the manuscript of the poor literary 
dragoon. Lady Lillycraft buried herself m a deep, well- 
cushioned elbow-chair. Her dogs were nestled on soft mats at 
!her feet ; and the gallant general took his station in an arm- 
chair, at hor side, and toyed with her elegantly ornamented 
work-bag. The rest of the circle being all equally well accom- 
modated, the captain began his story ; a copy of which I have 
^procured for the benefit of the reader. 

i: 



fc) 



THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 

What a life do I lead with my master; nothing but blo-'.vin.er of bellowes, beating ot 
pirits, and scraping of croslets! It is a very secret science, for none almost can 
iindeTstand the language of it. Sublimation, alxiiigation, calcination, rubification, 
Ubification, and fermentation; with as many tennes unpossibla to be uttered as the 
irte to be compassed.— Lilly's Gallathea. 

Once upon a time, m. the ancient city of Granada, there 
sojourned a young man of the name of Antonio de Castros. 
He wore the garb of a student of Salamanca, and was pursuin 
1 course of reading in the library of the university; and, at i 
bervals of leisure, mdulging his curiosity by examining t]if);,o 
Remains of Moorish magnificence for v/hich Granada is re- 
nowned. 

Whilst occupied in his studies, he frequently noticed an old 
nan of a singular appearance, who was likewise a visitor to 
;he hbrary. He was lean and withered, though apparently 
nore from study than from age. His eyes, though bright and 
Plenary, were sunk m his head, and thrown into shade by 
)verhanging eyebrows. His dress was always the same: a 



1Q2 BRACEBBIDGE HALL. 

black doublet ; a short black cloak, very rusty and threadbare 
a small ruff and a large overshadowing hat. 

His appetite for knowledge seemed msatiable. He woul 
pass whole days in the library, absorbed in study, consulting ' 
multiplicity of authors, as though he were pursuing som 
intere'stmg subject through all its ramifications; so that, i 
fvQiieral, when evening came, he was almost buried amou; j 
ijooks and manuscripts. 

The curiosity of Antonio was excited, and he inquired of th|i 
attendants concerning the stranger. No one could give hi 
any information, excepting that he had been for some tirali 
past a casual frequenter of the hbrary ; that his reading la 
chiefly among works treatmg of the occult sciences, and thai 
he was particularly curious in Ms mquiries after Arabia: 
manuscripts. They added, that he never held connnunicatio: 
with anyone, excepting to ask for particular works ; that, aftq 
a fit of studious apphcation, he v/ould disappear for severs 
days, and even weeks, and v/hen he revisited the hbrary, h 
would look more withered and haggard than ever. The studenj 
felt interested by this account ; he was leading rather a desul- 
tory life, and had all that capricious curiosity which springs up 
in idleness. He determined to make himself acquainted with 
this book- worm, and find out who and what he was. 

The next time that he saw the old man at the hbrary, he 
commenced his approaches by requesting permission to look 
into one of the volumes with which the unknown a.ppeared to 
have done. The latter merely bowed his head, m token of 
assent. After pretending to look through the volume with I 
great attention, he returned it with many acknowledgments^ 
The stranger made no reply. 

"May I ask, senor," said Antonio, with some hesitation, 
*'may I ask what you are searching after in all these books?" 

The old man raised iiis head, with an expression of surprise, 
at having his studies interrupted for the first time, and 'bj so 
intrusive a question. He surveyed the student with a side 
glance from head to foot: "Wisdom, my son," said he, calmly; 
"and the search requires every moment of my attention." He 
then cast his eyes upon his book, and resumed his studies. 

' ' But, father, " said Antonio, ' ' cannot you spare a moment to 
point out the road to others? It is to experienced travellers 
like you, that we strangers in the paths of knowledge must 
look for directions on our journey." 

The stranger looked disturbed : " I have not time enough, my 



THE STUJ)E?7T OF SALAMANCA. 103 

son, to learn," said ho, "much less to teach. I am ignorant 
myself of the path of true knowledge ; how then can I show it 
to others?" 

"WeU, but, father—" 

"Senor," said the old man, mildly, but earnestly, **you must 
see that I have bul few steps more to the grave. In that short 
space have I to accomplish the whole business of my existence, 
I have no time for words ; every word is as one grain of sand 
of my glass wasted. Suffer me to be alone. " 

There was no replying to so complete a closing of the door of 
intimacy. The student found himself calmly but totally 
repulsed. Though curious and inquisitive, yet he was naturally 
modest, and on after-thoughts he blushed at his own intrusion. 
His mind soon became occupied by other objects. He passed 
several days wandering among the mouldering piles of Moorish 
architecture, those melancholy monuments of an elegant and 
voluptuous people. He paced the deserted halls of the Alham- 
bra, the paradise of the Moorish kings. He visited the great 
court of the iions, famous for the perfidious massacre of the 
gallant Abencerrages. He gazed with admiration at its mosaic 
cupolas, gorgeously painted in gold and azure; its basins of 
marble, its alabaster vase, supported by lions, and storied with 
inscriptions. 

His imagination kindled r.s he wandered among these scenes. 
They were calculated to awaken all the enthusiasm of a 3^outh- 
I ful mind. Most of the halls have anciently been beautified by 
! fountains. The fine taste of the Arabs delighted in the spark- 
i ling purity and reviving freshness of water ; and they erected, 
as it were, altars on every side, to that delicate element. Poe- 
[try mmgles with architecture in the Alhambra. It breathes 
along the very walls. Wherever Antonio turned his eye, he 
bclield inscriptions in Arabic, wherein the perpetuity of Moorish 
power and splendour within these waUs was confidently pre- 
dicted. Alas ! how has the prophecy been falsified ! Many of 
the basins, where the fountains had once thrown up their spark- 
ling showers, were dry and dusty. Some of the palaces were 
turned into gloomy convents, and the barefoot monk paced 
through those courts, which had once glittered with the array, 
and echoed to the music, of Moorish chivalry. 

In the course of his rambles, the student more than once 
encountered the old man of the library. He was always alone, 
and so full of thought as not to notice any one about him. He 
appeared to be intent upon studjing those half -buried inscrip- 



104 ^^^i GEBRIDOE HALL. 

tions, which are found, here and there, among the Moorish 
ruins, and seem to murmur from the earth the tale of former 
greatness. The greater part of these have since been trans- 
lated ; but they were supposed by many at the time, to contain 
symbolical revelations, and golden maxims of the Arabian sages 
and astrologers. As Antonio saw the stranger apparently 
deciphering these inscriptions, he felt an eager longing to make 
his acquaintance, and to participate in his curious researches ; 
but the repulse he had met with at the hbrary deterred him 
from making any further advances. 

He had directed his steps one evening to the sacred mount, 
Y/hich overlooks the beautiful valley watered by the Darro, the 
fertile plain of the Vega, and ail that rich diversity of vale 
and mountain that surrounds Granada with an earthly para- 
dise. It was twilight when he found hunself at the place, 
where, at the present day, are situated the chapels, known by 
the name of the Sacred Furnaces. They are so called from 
grottoes, in which some of the primitive saints are said to have 
been burnt. At the time of Antonio's visit, the place was an 
object of much curiosity. In an excavation of these grottoes, 
several manuscripts had recently been discovered, engraved 
on plates of lead. They were written in the Arabian language, 
excepting one, which was in unknown characters. The Pope 
had issued a bull, forbidding any one, under pain of excom- 
munication, to speak of these manuscripts. The prohibition 
had only excited the greater curiosity; and many reports 
were whispered about, that these manuscripts contained trea- 
sures of dark and forbidden knowledge. 

As Antonio was examining the place from whence these mys- 
terious manuscripts had been drawn, he again observed the 
old man of the library wandering among the ruins. His 
curiosity was now fully powakened; the time and place served 
to stimulate it. He resolved to watch this groper after secret 
and forgotten lore, and to trace him to his habitation. There 
T/a3 sometliing like adventure in the thing, that charmed his 
romantic disposition. He followed the stranger, therefore, at 
a little dista,nce; at first cautiously, but he soon observed him 
to be so wrapped in Ms own thoughts, as to take little heed of 
external objects. 

• They passed along the skirts of the Jiiountain, and tlien by 
the shady banks of the Darro. They pnisued their way, for 
some distance from. Granada, along a lonely road that led 
among the hills. The gloom of evening was gathering, and it 



THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 105 

was quite dark when the stranger stopped at the portal of a 
sohtary mansion. 

It appeared to be a mere wing, or ruined fragment, of what 
had once been a pile of some consequence. The walls were of 
great tliickness; the windows narrow, and generally secured 
by iron bars. The door was of planks, studded with iron 
spikes, and had been of great strength, though at present it 
was much decayed. At one end of the mansion was a ruinous 
tower, in the Moorish style of architectm'e. The edifice had 
probably been a country retreat, or castle of pleasure, during 
the occupation of Granada by the Moors, and rendered suifi- 
cientiy strong to withstand any casual assault in those warlike 
times. 

The old man knocked at the portal. A Hght appeared at a 
small window just above it, and a female head looked out: it 
might have served as a model for one of Raphael's saints. 
The hair was beautifully braided, and gathered in a silken net ; 
and the complexion, as well as could be judged from the light, 
was that soft, rich brunette, so beconihig in southern beauty. 

"It is I, my child," said the old man. The face instantly 
disappeared, and soon after a wicket-door in the large portal 
opened. Antonio, who had ventured near to the building, 
caught a transient sight of a delicate female form. A pair of 
fine black eyes darted a look of surprise at seeing a stranger 
hovering near, and the door \\a^ precipitately closed. 

There was something in thvs sudden gleam of beauty that 
wonderfully struck the imagination of the student. It was 
like a brilliant, flashing from its dark casket. He sauntered 
about, regarding: the gloomy pile with increasing interest. A 
few simple, wild notes, from among some rocks and trees at a 
little distance, attracted his attention. He found there a 
gi-oup of Gritanas, a vagabond i^psy race, which at that time 
abounded in Spain, and lived in hovels and caves of the hills 
about the neighbourhood of Granada. Some were busy about a 
fire, and others were listening to the uncouth music which one 
r their companions, seated on a ledge of the rock, was making 

ith a split reed. 

Antonio endeavoured to obtain some information of them, 
concerning the old building and its inhabitants. The one who 
appeared to be their spokesman was a gaunt feBow, with a 
subtle gait, a whispering voice, and a sinister roll of the eye. 
He shi'ugged Ms shoulders on the student's inquiries, and said 
that aU was not right in that building. An old man inhabited 



IQQ BRAiJEBBIDGE HALL. 

it, whom nobody knew, and whose family appeared to be only a 
daughter and a female servant. He and his companions, he 
.added, lived up among the neighbouring hills ; and as they had 
been about at night, they had often seen strange lights, and 
heard strange sounds from the tower. Some of the country 
people, who worked in the vineyards among the hiUs, behoved 
the old man to be one that dealt in the black art, and were not 
over-fond of passing near the tower at night; "but for our 
parts," said the Gitano, " we are not a people that trouble our- 
selves much with fears of that kind. " 

The student endeavoured to gain more precise information, 
but they had none to furnish him. They began to be solicitous 
for a compensation for Avhat they had already imparted ; and, 
recollecting the loneliness of the place, and the vagabond 
character of his companions, he was glad to give them a gratu- 
ity, and to hasten homewards. 

He sat down to his studies, but his brain was too full of what 
he had seen and heard ; his eye was upon the page, but his 
fancy still returned to the tower; and he was continually 
picturing the httle window, with the beautiful head peeping 
out ; or the door hah open, and the nymph-like form within. 
He retired to bed, but the same object haunted his dreams. 
He was young and susceptible; and the excited state of his 
feehngs, from wandering among the abodes of departed grace 
and gallantry, had predisposed liim for a sudden impression. ^ 
from female beauty. 

The next, morning, he strolled again in the direction of tl 
tower. It was still more forlorn, by the broad glare of da;; 
than in the gloom of evening. The walls were crumbling, am 
weeds and moss were growing in every crevice. It had the! 
look of a prison, rather than a dwelhng-house. In one angle, ^ 
however, he remarked a window wliich seemed an exception 
to the surrounding squahdness. There was a curtain drawn 
within it, and flowers standing on the window-stone. Whilst 
he was looking at it, the curtain was partially withdrawn, and 
a delicate white arm, of the most beautiful roundness, was 
put forth to water the flowers. 

The student made a noise, to attract the attention of the fair 
florist. He succeeded. The curtain was further drawn, and 
he had a glance of the same lovely face he had seen the even- 
ing before ; it was but a mere glance — the curtain again feU, 
and the casement closed. All this was calculated to excite the 
feelings of a romantic youth. Had he seen the unknown under 



THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 107 

other circumstances, it is probable that he would not have been 
struck with her beauty ; but tliis appearance of being shut up 
and kept apart, gave her the value of a treasured gem. He 
passed and repassed before the house several times in the 
course of the day, but saw nothing more. He was there again 
in the evening. The whole aspect of the house was dreary. 
Tlie narrow windows emitted no rays of cheerful hght, to indi- 
cate that there was social life within. Antonio hstened at the 
portal, but no sound of voices reached his ear. Just then he 
heard the clapping ro of a distant door, and fearing to be de- 
tected in the unworthj^ act of eavesdropping, he precipitately 
drew off to the opposite side of the road, and stood in the sha- 
dow of a ruined archway. 

He now remarked a light from a window in the tower. It 
was fitful and changeable ; commonly feeble and yellowish, as 
if from a lamp ; with an occasional glare of some vivid metallic 
colour, followed by a. dusky glow. A colunm of dense smoke 
would now and then rise in the air, and hang like a canopy 
over the tower. There vvas altogether such a loneliness and 
seeming mystery about tlie building and its inliabitants, that 
Antonio was half inchned to indulge the country people's 
notions, and to fancy it the den of some powerfid sorcerer, and 
the fair damsel he had seen to be some spell-bound beauty. 

After some tune had elapsed, a hght appea^red in the window 
where he had seen the beautiful arm. The curtain was down, 
but it was so thin that he could perceive the shadow of some 
one passing and repassing between it and the light. He 
fancied that he could distinguish that the form was delicate ; 
and, from the alacrity of its movements, it was evidently 
youthful. He had not a doubt but tliis v/as the bedc-hamber of 
his beautiful unknown. 

Presently he heard the sound of a guitar, and a female voice 
siiiging. He drew near cautiously, and listened. It was a 
plaintive Moorish ballad, and he recognized in it the lamenta- 
tions of one .of the Abencerrages on leaving the walls of lovely 
Granada. It was full of passion and tenderness. It spoke of 
tJie delights of early life ; the hours of love it had enjoyed on 
the banks of tlie Darro, and among the bhssful abodes of the 
Alharnbra. It bewailed the fallen honours of the Abencerra^es, 
and imprecated vengeance on their oppressors. Antonio was 
affected by the music. It singularly coincided vdih. the place. 
It was like the voice of past times echoed in the present, and 
breathing among the monuments of its departed glory. 



-^QQ BUACEBUIDQE BALL. 

The voice ceased ; after a time the b"ght disappeared, and all 
was still. "She sleeps!" said Antonio, fondly. He lingered 
about the building, with the devotion with which a lover 
lingers about the bower of sleeping beauty. The rising moon 
threw its silver beams on the gray walls, and ghttered on the 
casement. The late gloomy landscape gi^adually became 
flooded with its radiance. Finding, therefore, that he could no 
longer move about in obscurity, and fearful that his loiterings 
might be observed, he reluctantly retired. 

The curiosity which had at first drawn the young man to the 
tower, was now seconded by feelings of a more romantic kind. 
His studies were almost entirely abandoned. He maintained a 
kind of blockade of the old mansion; he would take a book 
with him, and pass a great part of the day under the trees in its 
vicinity ; keeping a vigilant eye upon it, and endeavouring to 
ascertain what were the walks of his mysterious charmer. He 
found, however, that she never went out except to mass, when 
she was accompanied by her father. He waited at the door of 
the chm"ch, and offered her the holy water, in the hope of 
touching her hand; a little office of gallantry common in 
Catholic countries. She, however, modestly declined without 
raising her eyes to see who made the offer, and aiw^ays took it 
herself from the font. She was attentive in her devotion ; her 
eyes were never taken from the altar or the priest ; and, on 
returning home, her countenance was almost entkely con- 
cealed by her mantilla. 

Antonio had now carried on the pursuit for several days, and 
was hourly getting more and more interested in the chase, but 
never a step nearer to the game. His lurkings about the house 
had probably been noticed, for he no longer saw the fair face 
at the window, nor the w-hite arm put forth to water the 
flowers. His only consolation was to repair nightly to his post 
of observation, and listen to her warbHng; and if by chance he 
could catch a sight of her shadow, passing and repassing before 
the window, he thought himself mast fortunate. 

As he was indulging in one of these evening vigils, which were 
complete revels of the imaginaticva, the sound of apijroaching 
footsteps made him withdraw into the deep shadow of the 
ruined archway opposite to the tower. A cavalier approached, 
wrapped in a large Spanish cloak. He paused under the v.dn- 
dow of the tower, and after a little while began a serenade, 
accompanied by his guitar, in the usual style of Spanish gal- 
lantry. His voice was rich and manly ; he touched the instru- 



THE STUDE^^T OF SALAMANCA. lOO 

ment with skill, and sang with amorous and impassioned elo- 
quence. -The plume of his hat was buckled by jewels that 
sparkled in the moon-beams ; and as he played on the guitar, 
his cloak f aUing off from one shoulder, showed him to be richly 
dressed. It was evident that he was a person of rank. 

The idea now flashed atrojs Antonio's mind, that the affec- 
tions of his unknown beauty might be engaged. She was 
young, and doubtless susceptible ; and it was not in the nature 
of Spanish females to be deaf and insensible to music and admi- 
ration. The surmise brought with it a feeling of dreariness. 
There was a pleasant dream of several days suddenly dispelled. 
He had never before experienced any thiiig of the tender pas- 
sion; and, as its morning dreams are always dehghtful, lie 
would fain have continued in the delusion. 

" But what have I to do with her attachments?" thought he; 

I have no claun on her heart, nor even on her acquaintance. 
How do I know that she is worthy of affection? Or if she is, 
|must not so gallant a lover as this, with liis jewels, his rank, 
and liis detestable music, have com])lctely captivated her? 
What idle humour is this that I have fallen into? I must again 
to my books. Study, study, vrih soon chase away all these idle 
fancies!" 

The more he thought, however, the more he became entangled 
in the spell which his lively imagination had woven round Inm ; 
and now that a rival had appeared, in addition to the other 
obstacles that environed this enchanted beauty, she appeared 
ben times more lovely and desii-able. It was some shght conso- 
lation to him to perceive that the gallantry of the unknown 
net with no apparent return from the tower. The light at the 

ndow was extinguislied. The cuitain remained undravv^n, 
md none of the customary signals were given to intimate that 
ihe serenade was accepted. 

The cavalier lingered for some thne about the place, and sa.ng 
jeveral other tender airs with a taste and feelmg that made 
intonio's heart ache ; at length he slowly retired. The student 
•emained with folde.d arms, leaning figainst the ruined arch, 
jndeavouring to summon up resolution enough to depart ; but 
here was a romantic fascination that still enchained him to the 
)laco. " It is the last time, " said he, v/iiling to compromise 

fitween his feelings and his judgment, "it is the last time; 
en let mo enjoy the dream a few moments longer." 
As liis oyo ran.:':ed about the old building to take a farewell 
ok, ho observ-ed the strange light in the tower, which he had 



110 BRAGEBRIDOE HALL. 

noticed on a former occasion. It kept beaming up, and declin- 
ing, as before. A pillar of smoke rose in the air, and hung in 
sable volumes. It was evident the old man was busied in some 
of those operations that had gained him the reputation of a 
sorcerer throughout the neighbourhood. 

Suddenly an intense and brilliant glare shone through the 
casement, followed by a loud^ report, and then a fierce and 
ruddy glow. A figure appeared at the window, uttering cries 
of agony or alarm, but immediately disappeared, and a body 
of smoke and flame whirled out of the narrow aperture. An- 
tonio rushed to the portal, and knocked at it with vehemence. 
He was only answered by loud shrieks, and found th.at the 
females were already in helpless consternation. With an exer- 
tion of desperate strength he forced the wicket from its hinges, 
and rushed into the house. 

He found himself in a small vaulted haU, and, by the light of 
the moon which entered at the door, he saw a staircase to the 
left. He hurried up it to a narrow corridor, through which 
was rolling a volume of smoke. He found here the two females 
m a frantic state of alarm ; one of them clasped her hands, and 
implored him to save her father. 

The corridor terminated in a spiral flight of steps, leading up 
to the tower. He sprang up it to a smafl door, through the 
chmks of which came a glow of light, and smoke was spuming 
out. He burst it open, and found hmiself in an antique vaulted 
chamber, f ornished with a furnace and various chemical appa- 
ratus. A shattered retort lay on the stone floor ; a quantity of 
combustibles, nearly consumed, with various half -burnt books 
and papere, were sending up an expiring flame, and filling the 
chamber with stifling smoke. Just within the threshold lay 
*tlie reputed conjurer. He- was bleeding, his clothes were; 
scorched, and he appeared Hfeless. Antonio caught him up, andj 
bore him dowm the stairs to a chamber, in which there v/as 
light, and laid him on a bed. The female domestic was dc-i 
spatched for such apT-)hances as the house afforded ; but the 
daughter threw herself frantically beside her parent, and coulc 
not be reasoned out of her alarm. Her dress was all in disoi 
der; her dishevelled hair hung in rich confusion about her necl 
and bosom, and never was there beheld a loveher picture oi 
terror and affliction. 

The skilful assiduities of the scholar soon produced signs of^ 
returning animation in his patient. The old man's TN^cun(lg;i 
though severe, were not dangerous. They had evidently beenj 



THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. HI 

produced by the bursting of the retort; in his bewildermont he 
had been enveloped in the stilling metallic vapours, which had 
overpowered his feeble frame, and had not Antonio arrived to 
his assistance, it is possible he might never have recovered. 

,By slow degrees he came to his senses. He looked about 
with a bewildered air at the chamber, the agitated group ground, 
and the student who was leaning over him. 

" Vv^here am I?" said he wildly. 

At the sound of his voice, his daughter uttered a faint excla- 
mation of delight. "My poor Inez!" said he, embi'acing her; 
then, putting his hand to his head, and taking it away stained 
with blood, he seemed suddenly to recollect himself, and to be 
overcome with emotion. 

' 'Ah !" cried he, ' ' all is over with me ! all gone ! all vanished ! 
gone in a moment ! the labour of a lifetime lost !" 

His daughter attenapted to soothe him, but he became shght- 
ly delirious, and raved incoherently about malignant demons, 
and about the habitation of the green lion being destroyed. 
His wounds being d.ressed, and such other remedies adminis- 
tered as his situation required, he sunk into a state of quiet. 
; Antonio now turned his attention to the daughter, whose suf- 
ferings had been httle inferior to those of her father. Having 
with great difficulty succeeded in tranquillizing her fea,rs, ho 
endeavoured to prevail upon her to retire, and seek the repose 
so necessar}^ to her frame, proffering to remain by her father 
until morning. "I am a stranger, " said he, "it is true, and 
my offer maj^ appear intrusive ; but I see you are lonely and 
helpless, and I cannot help ventiu'ing over the limits of mere 
ceremony. Should you feel any scruple or doubt, hovv'ever, say 
but a word, and I will instantly retire." 

There was a frankness, a kindness, and a modesty, mingled 
in Antonio's deportment, that inspired instant confidence ; and 
liis simple scholar's garb was a recommendation in the house 
3f poverty. The females consented to resicni the sufferer toliis 
[lare, as they would-be the better able to attend to him on the 
morrow. On retiring, the old domestic was profuse in her 
benedictions; the daughter only looked her thanks; but as 
uhey shone through the tears that filled her fine black eyes, the 
student thought them a thousand times the most eloquent. 

Here, then, he was, by a singula^r turn of chance, completely 
loused within this mysterious mansion. When left to himself, 
mcl the bustle of the scene was over, his heart throbbed as he 
coked round the chamber in which hf was sitting. It Avas the 



212 BBACEBBIDGE HALL. 

daughter's room, the promised land towaxd wliich he had cast 
so many a longing gaze. The furniture was old, and had prob- 
ably belonged to the building in its prosperous days; but 
every thing was arranged with propriety. The flowers that he 
had seen her attend stood in the window; a guitar leaned 
against a table, on which stood a crucifix, and before it lay a 
missal and a rosary. There reigned an air of purity and 
serenity about this little nestling-place of innocence ; it was tlio 
emblem of a chaste and quiet mmd. Some few articles of 
female dress lay on the chairs ; and there was the very bed on 
which she had slept —the pillow on v/hich her soft cheek had 
rechned ! The poor scholar was treading enchanted ground ; 
for what ioivj land has more of magic m it, than the bed- 
chamber of innocence and beauty ? 

From various expressions of the old man in his ravings, and 
from what he had noticed on a subsequent visit to the tower, 
to see that the fire was extinguished, Antonio had gathered 
that his patient was an alchymist. The philosopher's stone 
was an object eagerly sought after by visionaries m those 
days; but in consequence of the superstitious prejudices of the 
times, and the frequent persecutions of its votaries, they were 
apt to pursue then' experiments in secret ; in lonely houses, in 
caverns and ruins, or in the privacy of cloistered cells. 

In the course of the night, the old man had several fits of 
restlessness and delirium ; he would call out upon Theophras- 
tus, and Geber, and Albertus Magnus, and other sages of his 
art ; and anon would murmur about fermentation and projec- 
tion, until, toward daylight, he once more- sunk into a salutary 
sleep. When the morning sun darted his rays mto the case 
ment, the fair Inez, attended by the female domestic, cami 
blusliing into the chamber. The student now took his leave, 
having himself need of repose, but obtaining ready permissio: 
to return and inquire after the sufferer. 

When he called again, he found the alchymist languid and ii] 
pain, but apparently suffering more in mind than in body. His 
dehrium had left him, and he had been informed of the particu 
lars of Ms deliverance, and of the subsequent attentions of th( 
scholar. He could do little more than look his thanl?:s, bu 
Antonio did not require them ; his own heart repaid Imji f oi 
aU that he had done, and he almost rejoiced in the disaster thai 
had gained him an entrance into this mysterious habitation 
The alchj^mist was so helpless as to need much assistance 
Antonio remained with him, therefore, the greater part of thj 



THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 113 

day. He repeated his visit the next day, and the next. Every 
day his company seoined more pleasing to the invalid; and 
every day he felt his interest in the latter increasing. Perhaps 
the presence of the daughter might have been at the bottom of 
this solicitude. 

He had frequent and long conversations with the alchymist. 
He found him, as men of his pursuits were apt to be, a mixtui-o 
of enthusiasm and simplicity; of curious and extensive reading; 
on points of little utility, with great inattention to the every- 
day occurrences of life, and profound ignorance of the world. 
He was deeply versed in singular and obscure branches of 
knowledge, a.nd much given to visionary speculations. Anto- 
nio, whose mind was of a romantic cast, had himself given 
some attention to the occult sciences, and he entered upon these 
themes with an ardour that delighted the philosopher. Their 
conversations frequently turned upon astrology, divination, 
and the great secret. The old man would forget his aches and 
wounds, rise up like a spectre in his bed, and kindle into elo- 
quence on his favourite topics. When gently admonished of his 
situation, it would but prompt him to another sally of thought. 

" Alas, my son!" he would say, "is not this very decrepitude 
and suffering another proof of the importance of those secrets 
with which we are surrounded? Why are we trammelled by 
disease, withered by old age, and our spirits quenched, as it 
were, within us, but because we have lost those secrets of life 
and youth which were known to our parents before their fall ? 
To regain these, have philosophers been ever since aspiring; 
but just as they are on the point of securing the precious 
secrets for ever, the brief period of life is at an end ; they die, 
and with them all their wisdom and experience. ' Nothing,' as 
De Nuysment observes, ' nothing is wanting for man's perfec- 
tion but a longer life, less crossed with sorrovfs and maladies, 
to the attaining of the full and perfect knowledge of things. ' " 

At length Antonio so far gained on the heart of his patient, 
as to draw from him the outlines of his story. 

Felix de Vasques, the alchymist, was a native of Castile, and 
of an ancient and honourable line. Early in life he had married 
a beautiful female, a descendant from one of the Moorish fami- 
lies. The marriage displeased his fatiier, who considered the 
pure Spanish blood contaminated by this foreign mixture. It 
is true, the lady traced her descent from one of the Abencer- 
rages, the most gallant of Moorish cavaliers, who had embraced 
the Christian faith on being exiled from the walls of Granada. 



114: BBACEBRIDGE HALL. 

The injured pride of the father, however, was not to be 
appeased. He never saw his son afterwards, and oa dying 
left him but a scanty portion of his estate ; bequeathing the resi- 
due, in the piety and bitterness of his heart, to the erection of 
convents, and the performance of masses for souls in purga- 
tory. Don Felix resided for a long time in the neighbourhood 
of Valladoiid, in a state of embarrassment and obscurity. He 
devoted himself to intense study, having, while at^ the univer- 
sity of Salamanca, imbibed a taste for the secret sciences. He 
was enthusiastic and speculative ; he went on from one branch 
of knowledge to another, until he became zealous in the search 
after the grand Arcanum. 

He had at first engaged in the pursuit with the hopes of rais- 
ing himself from his present obscurity, and resuming the rank 
and dignity to which his birth entitled liun ; but, as usual, it 
ended in absorbing every thought, and becoming the busi- 
ness of his existence. He was at length aroused from this 
mental abstraction, by the calamities of his household. A 
malignant fever swept oH his wife and all his children, except- 
ing an infant daughter. These losses for a time overwhehned 
and stupefied hun. His home had in a manner died away from 
around liim, and he felt lonely and forlorn. When his spirit 
revived within him, he determined to aba-ndon the scene of his 
humiliation and disaster ; to bear away the cliild that was still 
left liim beyond the scene of contagion, and never to return 
to Castile until he should be enabled to reclaim the honours of 
his hne. - 

^ He had ever since been wandering and unsettled in Ms abode ; 
— sometimes the resident of populous cities, at other times of 
alsolute solitudes. He had searched libraries, meditated on 
inscriptions, visited adepts of different countries, and sought 
to gather and concentrate the raja's which had been thrown by 
various minds upon the secrets of alchymy. He had at one 
time travelled quite to Padua to search for' the manuscripts of 
Piotro d'Abano, and to inspect an urn which had ]jccn dwg up 
near Este, supposed to have been buried by Maximus Olybius, 
and to have contained the grand chxir.* 

* Tliis urn was found in 1533. It eontained a lesser one. in^vhieh was a burning 
lamp betwixt two small vials, the one of gold, the ot,her of r-i!ver. both of them full 
of a very clear liquor. Ou the largest was an inscription, stating tiiat Maximus 
Olybius shut up in this small vessel elements which he hnd prepared with ^rreat toil. 
There were many disquisitions among' th;i leai'ned on the subject. It v.-as the most 
received opinion, that this Maximus Olybius was an inhabitant of Padua, that he 



THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 115 

While at Padua, ho had met with an adept versed in Arabian 
lore, who talked of the invahiable manuscripts that must re- 
main in the Spanish libraries, preserved from the spoils of the 
Moorish academies and universities ; of the probability of meet- 
ing with precious unpublished writings of Geber, and Alfai^a- 
bius, and Avicenna, the great physicians of the Arabian schools, 
who, it was well known, had treated much of alchymy, bui., 
above all, he^ spoke of the Arabian tablets of load, which had ' 
recently been dug up in the neighbourliood of Granada, and 
which, it was confidently believed among adepts, contained 
the lost secrets of the art. 

The indefatigable alchymist once more bent his steps for 
Spain, full of renovated hope. He had made his way to Gra- 
nada : he had wearied himself in the study of Arabic, in decipher- 
ing inscriptions, in rummaging libraries, and exploring every 
possible trace left by the^x\rabian sages. 

in all his wanderings, he had been accompanied by Inez 
through the rough and the smooth, the pleasant and the ad- 
verse; never complaining, but rather seeking to soothe liis 
cares by her innocent and playful caresses. Her instruction 
had been the employment and the delight of his hours of relax- 
ation. She had gTown up wlule they were ^vandering, and had 
scarcely ever known any home but by his side. He was family, 
friends, home, everything to her. He had carried her in his 
arms, when they first began their wayfaring; had nestled her, 
as an eagle does its young, among the rocky heights of the SieiTa 
Morena ; she had sported about hirn in (jliUdhood, in the soh- 
tudes of the Bateucas ; had followed him, as a lamb does the 
shepherd, over the rugged Pyrenees, and into the fair plains 
of Languedoc ; and now she was grown up to support his feeble 
steps among the ruined abodes of her maternal ancestors. 

His property had gi-adually wasted away, in the course of 
liis travels and his experiments. Still hope, the constant at- 
tendant of the alchymist, had led him on ; ever on the point of 
reaping the reward of his labours, and ever disappointed. With 
the credulity that often attended his art, he attributed nian>' 
of his disappointments to the machination of the malignant 
spirits that beset the paths of the alcliymist and torment him 
in his sohtary labours. " It is their constant endeavour, " he ob- 

had discovered the great secret, and that these vessels contained liquor, one to 
ti-ansmute metals to gold, and other to silver. The peasants who found the urns, 
imagining this precious liquor to be corairion water, spilt every drop, so that the 
ari of transmutitig metals remaics as much a secret as ever. 



116 BEAGEBRIBGE HALL. 

served, ''to close up every avenue to those . sublime truths, 
which vfould enable man to rise above the abject state into 
which he has fallen, and to return to his original perfection." 
To the evil offices of these demons, he attributed his late dis- 
aster. He had been on the very verge of the glorious discovery • 
never v/ere the indications more completely auspicious ; all w£ 
going on prosperously, when, at the critical moment wliicti 
should have crowned his labours with success, and have placed 
him at the very summit of human power and felicity, the 
bursting of a retort had reduced Ms laboratory and hhnself to 
ruins. 

"I must now," said he, ''give up at the very threshold of 
success. My books and papers are burnt; my apparatus ist 
broken. I am too old to bear up against these evils. The 
ardour that once inspired me is gone ; my poor frame is ex- 
hausted by study and watchfulness, and this last misfortune 
has hurried me towards the grave." 'He concluded m a tone 
of deep dejection. Antonio endeavoured to comfort and reas- 
siu'e hiixi ; but the poor alchymist had for once awakened to a 
consciousness of the vf oiidly ills that were gathering around 
him, and had sunk into despondency. After a pause, and some 
thoughtfulness and x)erplexity of brow, Antonio ventured to 
make a proposal. 

"I have long," said he, "been filled with a love for the secret 
sciences, but have felt too ignorant and dhndont to give myself 
up to them. You have acquired experience ; you have amassed 
the knowledge of a lifetime ; it w^re a jDity it should be thrown 
away. You say you are too old to renew the toils of the labo- 
ratory ; suffer me to undertake them. Add your knowledge to 
m.y youth and activity, and what shall we not accomplish? As 
a probationary fee, and a fund on v/hicli to proceed, I will bring 
into the common stock a sum of gold, the residue of a legacy, 
which has enabled me to complete my education. A poor scholar 
cannot boast much ; but I trust v/e shall soon put ourselves be- 
yond the reach of want ; and if we should fail, why, I must 
depend, like other scholars, upon my brains to carry me through 
the world." 

The philosopher's s|)irits, however, v/ere more depressed than 
the student had imagmed. This last shock, following in tJie 
rear of so many disappointments, had almost destroyed the 
reaction of his mind. The fire of an enthusiast, however, is 
never so low but that it niaj' be ]3lo^.vn again into Po flame. By 
degrees, the old man was cheered and reamiaated by the buoy- 



THF. STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 117 

ancy and ardour of his sanguine companion. He at length 
agreed to accept of the services of the student, and once moi^ 
to renew his experiments. He objected, however, to using the 
student's gold, notwithstanding that iiis own was nearly ex- 
■ lasted; but this objection was soon overcome; the student 
isted on making it a common stock and common cause; — 
,, i then how absurd was any delicacy about such a trifle, with 
I'.icn who looked lorward to discovering the philosopher's stone ! 
Wliile, therefore, the alchymist was slowly recovering, the 
student busied himself in getting the laboratory once more m 
order. It was strewed with the wrecks of retorts and alembics, 
with old crucibles, boxes and phials of powdei's and tinctures, 
and half-burnt books and manuscripts. 

As soon as the old man was sufficiently recovered, the studies 
and experiments were renewed. Tb-e student became a privi- 
leged and frequent visitor, and was indefatigable in his toils in tlie 
laboratory. The philosopher daily derived new zeal and spirits 
f I'om the animation of his disciple. He was now enabled to pros- 
ecute the enterprise with continued exertion, having so active a 
coadjutor to divide the toil. While he-w-as poring over the writ- 
ings of Sp.ndivogius, and Philalethes, and Dominus de Nuys- 
i ment, and endeavouring to comprehend the symbolical language 
i in which they have loclied up their mysteries, Antonio would 
occupy himself among the retorts and crucibles, and keep the 
furnace in a perpetual glow. 

With all his zeal, however, for the discovery of the golden 
art, the feelings of the student had not cooled as to the object 
that first drew him to this ruinous mansion. During the old 
man's illness, he had frequent opportunities of being near the 
daughter; and every day made liim more sensible to her 
charms. There was a pure simplicity, and an almost passive 
gentleness, in her manners ; yet with all tiiis was mingled some- 
thing, whether mere maiden shyness, or a consciousness of high 
descent, or a dash of Castilian pride, or perhaps all united, 
that prevented undue familiarity, and made her diificult of 
approach. The danger of her father, pmd the measures to be 
taken for liis relief, had at first overcome this coyness and 
reserve,- but as he recovered a,nd her alarm subsided, she 
seemed to shrink from the familiarity she had indulged v/ith 
the youthful stranger, and to become every day more shy and 
I silent. 

! Antonio had read many books, but this was the first volume 
j of womankind that he had ever studied. He had been capti- 



1J8 BRsiCEBIUDGE UALL. 

vatecl T7itli tlio very title-page; but the further he read, tl 
igore he was delighted. She seemed formed to love ; her sol 
black eye roiled languidly under its long silken lashes, ai 
wherever it turned, it vf ould hnger- and repose ; there was tel 
derness in every beam. To him polone she was reserved ai 
distant. Now tha.t the common cares of the sick-room were 
an end, he saw little more of her than before his admission 
the house. Sometimes he met her on his way to and from tl 
laboratory, and at such times there was ever a smile and 
blush; but, after a simple scJjtation, she glided on and dil 
appeared. 

" 'Tis plain, " thought Antonio, "my presence is indiifereni 
ii not irksome to her. She has noticed my admiration, and 
determined to discourage it; nothing but a feehng of gratitud" 
prevents her treating me with marked distaste — and then has 
she not another lover, rich, gallant, splendid, musical? how can 
I suppose she would turn her eyes from so brilliant a cavalier, 
to a poor obscure student, raking among the cinders of her 
father's laboratory?" 

Indeed., the idea of the amorous serenader continually 
haunted his mind. He felt convinced that he was a favoured 
lover; yet, if so, why did he not frequent the tower?— why did 
he not make his approaches by noon-day? There was mystery 
in this eavesdropping and musical courtship. Surely Inez 
could not be encouraging a secret intrigue ! Oh ! no ! she was 
too artless, too pure, too mgenuous! But then the Spanish 
females were so prone to love and intrigue; and music and 
moonlight were so seductive, and Inez had such a tender soul 
languishing in every look.— r" Oh!" would the poor scholar 
exclaim, clasping his hands, ' ' oh, that I could but once behold 
those loving eyes beaming on me with affection !" 

It is incredible to those wiio have not experienced it, on Vv^hat 
scanty ahment human life and human love may be supported.. 
A dry crusfc, thrown now and then to a starving man, T^^iilgive 
him a new lease of existence ; and a faint smile, or a kind look, 
bestowed at casual intervals, will keep a lover loving on, when 
a man in his sober senses Vv'-ould despair. ) 

When Antonio found himself alone in the laboratory, his^ 
mind v/oald be haunted by one of these looks, or smiles, which 
he had received in passing. He would set it in every possible 
hght, and argue on it with all the self -pleasing, self -teasing logic 
oi a lover. 

The country around him was enough to awaken that volup - 



- THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 119 

uousness of feeling so favourable to the gi^owth of passion. 
Che window of the tov/or rose above the treer; of the roinantic 
valley of the Darro, and looked down upon some of the love- 
iest scenery of the Vega, where groves of citron and orango 
vere refreshed by cool springs and broolis of the purest water. 
Che Xenel and the Darro wound their shining strean\s along 
r)lain, and gleamed from among its bowers. The surround- 
iiiils were covered with vineyards, and the mountains, 
rned with snow, seemed to melt into the blue sky. The 
>-ate airs that played about the tower were perfumed by the 
ragrance of myrtle and orange-blossoms, and the ear was 
diarmed with the fond warbling of the nightingale, which, in 
hese happy regions, sings the whole day l(3ng. Sometimes, 
00, there was the idle song of the muleteer, sauntering along 
he sohtary road ; or the notes of the guitar, from some -groii p 
)f peasants dancing in the shade. All these v/ere enough to 
ill the head of the young lover with poetic fancies ; and Antonio 
vould picture to himseK how he could loiter among those ha.ppy 
proves, and wander by those gentle rivers, and love away his 
ife mth Inez. 

He felt at times impatient at his own weakness, and would 
endeavour to brush away these cobwebs of the mind. He would 
\\vn his thoughts, with sudden effort, to liis occult studies, or 
)Ccupy himself in some perplexing process ; but often, when he 
lad partially succeeded in fixing his attention, tiio sound of 
nez's lute, or the soft notes of her voice, would come stealing 
ipon the stiUness of the chamber, and, as it were, float- 
ng round the tower. There was no great art in her per- 
orraance; but Antonio thought he had never heard music 
•omparable to this. It was perfect witchcraft to hear her 
varble forth some of her national melodies ; those little Spanish 
•omances and Moorish ballads, that transport the hearer, in 
rica, to the banks of tlie Guadalquivir, or the waUs of the 
mbra, and make liim dream of beauties, and balconies, 
moonlight serenades. 

•ver was poor student more sadly beset than Antonio. 

' is a troublesome companion in a study, at the best of 

: ; but m the laboratory of an alchymist, his intrusion is 

-bly disastrous". Instead of attending to the retorts and 

mcibles, and watching the process of. epme experiment 

iilriistod to his charge, the student would get entranced in one 

'f these love-dreams, from which he would often be aroused by 

ome fatal catastrophe. The philosopher, on returning from 



120 BRAGEBRIDGE HALL. 

Ms researches in the libraries, would find every thing go: 
wrong, and Antonio in despair over the ruins of the whole day 
work. The old man, however, took all quietly, for his had been 
a life of experiment and failure. 

" We must have patience, my son," would he say, '' as all the 
great masters that have gone before us have had. Errors, and 
accidents, and delays are what we have to contend with. Did 
not Pontanas err two hundred times, before he could obtain 
even the matter on which to found his experiments? The gi-eat 
Flamol, too, did he not labour four-and-twenty years, before he 
ascertained the first agent? What difficulties and hardships 
did not Cartilaceus encounter, at the very threshold of his dis- 
coveries? And Bea-nard de Treves, even after he had attained 
a knowledge of all the requisites, was he not delayed full three 
years? What you consider accidents, my son, are the machina- 
tions of our invisible enemies. The treasures and golden secrets 
of nature are surrounded by spirits hostile to man. The air 
about us teems with them. They lurk in the fire of the fur- ; 
nace, in the bottom of the crucible, and the alembic, and are 
ever on the alert to take advantage of those moments when our 
minds are wandering from intense meditation on the great 
truth that we are seeking. We must only strive the more to 
purify ourselves from those gross and earthly feelings which 
becloud the soul, and prevent her from piercing into nature's ' 
arcana." 

' ' Alas !" thought Antonio, " if to be purified from all earthly 
feeling requires that I should cease to love Inez, I fear I shall 
never discover the philosopher's stone!" 

In this way, matters went on for some time, at the alchy- 
mist's. Day after day was sending the student's gold in vapour 
up the chimney; every blast of the furnace made him a ducat I 
the poorer, without apparently helping him a jot nearer to the 
golden secret. StiU the young man stood by, and saw piece 
afterpiece disappearing without a murmur: he had daily an 
opportunity of seaing Inez, and felt as if her favour would be 
better than silver or gold, and that every smile was worth a 
ducat. 

Sometimes, in the cool of the evening, when the toils of the 
laboratory happened to be suspended, he would walk with the 
alchymist in what had once been a garden belonging to tho 
mansion. There were stiU the remains of terraces and balus- 
trades, and here and there a marble urn, or mutiiated statue 
overturned, and buried among weeds and flowers run wild. It 



THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 121 

was the favourite resort of the alchyniist in his hours of relaxa- 
tion, ^rhere he would give full scope to his visionary flights. 
His mind was tinctured with the Rosicrucian doctrines. Ho 
believed in elementary beings ; some favourable, others adverse 
to his pursuits ; and, in the exaltation of his fancy, had often 
imagined that he held communion with them in his sohta-ry 
walks, about the whispering groves and echoing walls of this 
old garden. 

When accompanied by Antonio, be would prolong these 
evening recreations. Indeed, he sometimes did it out of con- 
sideration for his disciple, for fee feared lest his too close applica- 
tion, and his incessant seclusion in the tower, should be injuri- 
ous to his health. He was delighted and surprised by this 
extraordinary zeal and perseverance in so young a tyro, and 
looked upon him as destined to be one of the great luminaries 
of the art. Lest the student should repine at the time lost in 
these relaxations, the good alchymist would fiU them up with 
wholesome knowledge, in matters connected with their pursuits ; 
and would walk up and down the alleys i^dth his (disciple, im- 
parting oral instruction, hke an ancient philosopher. In all his 
visionary schemes, these breathed a spirit of lofty, though chi- 
merical philanthropy, that won the admiration of the scholar. 
Nothing sordid nor sensual, nothing petty nor selfish, seemed 
to enter into his views, in respect to the grand discoveries he was 
anticipating. On the contrary, his imagination kindled with 
conceptions of widely dispensated happiness. .He looked for- 
ward to the time when he should be able to go about the earth, 
roj loving the indigent, comforting the distressed; and, by his 
unlimited means, devising and executing plans for the com- 
plete extirpation of poverty, and all its attendant sufferings 
and crimes^ Never Y\^ere grander schemes for general good, for 
the distribution of boundless wealth and universal competence, 
devised than by this poor, indigent alchymist in his ruined 
tower. 

Antonio would attend these pei^patetic lectures with all the 
ardour of a devotee : but there was another circumstance whicli 
may have given a secret charm to them. The garden was the 
resort also of Inez, where she took her walks of recreation ; the 
only exercise that her secluded life permitted. As Antonio was 
dutc(3usly pacing by the side of his instructor, he would often 
catch a glimpse of the daughter, walking pensively about 
the alleys in the soft t^vilight. Sometimes they would meet her 
unexpectedly, and the he^.rt of the student would throb with 



3^22 BBACEBRIDOE HALL. 

agitation. A blush, too, would crimson the cheek of Inez, but 
^tiil she passed on and never joined them. 

He had remained one evening until rather a late hour with 
the alchymist in this favourite resort. It was a delightful night 
after a sultry day, and the balmy air of the garden was pecu- 
liarly reviving. The old man was seated on a fragment of a 
pedestal, looking like a part of the ruin on which he sat. He 
Y\ras edifying his pupil by long lessons of wisdom from the 
stars, as they shone out with brilliant lustre in the dark-blue 
vault of a southern sky ; for he was deeply versed in Behmen, 
and other of the Eosicrucians, and talked much of the signa- 
ture of earthly things and passing events, which may be dis- 
cerned in the heavens ; of the power of the stars over corporeal 
beings, and their influence on the fortunes of the sons of 
men. 

By degrees the moon rose and shed her gleaming light among 
the groves. Antonio apparently listened with fixed attention 
to the sage, but his ear was drinking in the melody of Inez's 
voice, who was singing to her lute in one of the moonlight 
glades of the garden. The old man, having exhausted his theme, 
sat gazing in silent reverie at the heavens. Antonio could not 
resist an inclination to steal a look at this coy beauty, who was 
thus playing the part of the nightingale, so sequestered and 
musical. Leaving the alchymist in his celestial reverie, he 
stole gently along one of the aUeys. The music had ceased, and 
he thought he heard the sound of voices. He came to an angle 
of a copse that had screened a kind of green recess, ornamented 
by a marble fountain. The moon shone full upon the place, 
and by its light he beheld his unknown, serenading riA^ai at the 
feet of Inez. He was detaining her by the hand, which he 
covered with kisses ; but at sight of Antonio he started up and 
half drew his sword, while Inez, disengaged, fled back to the 
house. ^ 

All the jealous doubts and fears of Antonio were now con- 
iirmed. He did not remam t|^ encounter the resentment of his 
liappy rival at being thus interrupted, but turned from the 
place in sudden yv retchedness of heart. That Inez should love 
another, would have been misery enough ; but that she should 
be capable ol a dishonourable amour, shocked him to the soul. 
The idea of deception in so young and apparently artless a being, 
brought with it that sudden distrust in human nature, so sick- 
ening to a youtliful and ingenuous mind ; but when he thought 
of the kind, shnple parent she was deceiving, whose affections 



T11?J STUDENT OF SALAMxiNCA. 123 

all centred in her, he felt for a moment a sentiment of indigna- 
tion, and almost of aversion. 

He foimd the alchymist still seated in his visionary contem- 
plation of the' moon. ''Come hither, my son," said he, with 
his usual enthusiasm, "come, read with me in this vast volume 
of wisdom, thus nightly unfolded for our perusal. Wisely did 
the Chaldean sages affirm, that the heaven is as a mystic page, 
uttering speech to those who can rightly understand ; warning 
them of good and evil, and instructing them in .the seci-et de- 
crees of fate." 

The student's heart ached f|>r his venerable master; and, for 
a moment, he felt the futihty of his occult wisdom. "Alas! 
poor old man!" thought he, "of what avails all thy study? 
Little dost thou dream, while busied in airy speculations among 
the stars, what a treason against thy happiness is going on 
under thine eyes; as it were, in thy very bosom!— Oh Inez! 
Inez ! where shall we look for truth and innocence, where shall 
we repose confidence in woman, if even you can deceive?" 

It was a trite apostif)phe, such as every lover makes when 
he finds his mistress not quite such a goddess as he had 
painted her. With the student, however, it sprung from 
honest an^iish of heart. Ho returned to his lodgings, in piti- 
able confusion of mind. He now deplored the infatuation that 
had led him on until his feelings were so thoroughly engaged. 
He resolved to abandon his pursuits at the tower, and trust to 
absence to dispel the fascination by which he had been spell- 
bound. ^ He no longer tliirsted after the discovery of the grand 
elixir: the dream of alchyrny was over; for, without Inez, 
what was the value of the philosopher's stone? 

He rose, after a sleepless night, with the determination of 
taking Ms leave of the alchymist, and tearing himself from 
Granada. For several days did he rise with the same resolu- 
tion, and every night saw him <?ome back to his pillow, to 
repine at his want of resolution, and to make fresh determina- 
tions for the morroAV. In the meanwhile, ho saw less of Inez 
than ever. She no longer walked in the garden, but remaincc'' 
almost entirely in her apartment. Wlien she met him, she 
blusVod more than usual : and once hesitated, as if she v/ould 
have spoken ; but, afte? a temporary embarrassment, and still 
d?eper blushes, she made some casual observation, and retired. 
Antonio read, in this confusion, a consciousneps of fault, and 
of t\iLij fault's being discovered. "^Tint could she have 
v^isheci to eomm'-micate? Perhaps to account for the scene in 



124 BBAGEBPJDGE HALL. 

the garden ;— but how can she account for it, or why should 
she account for it to me? What a,ni I to her?— or rather, 
what is she to me?" exclaimed he, impatiently, with a new 
resolution to break through these entanglements of the heart, 
and fly from this enchanted spot for ever. 

He was returning that very night to his lodgings, full of this 
excellent determination, when, in a shadowy part of the road, 
he passed a person whom he recognized, by his height and 
form, for his rival : he was going in the direction of the tower^ 
If amy lingering doubts remained, here was an opportunity of 
setthng them completely. He determined to follow this un- 
known cavaher, and, under favour of the darkness, observe his 
movements. If he obtained access to the tower, or in any way 
a favourable reception, Antonio felt as if it would be a rehef to 
his mmd, and would enable him to fix his wavering resolution. 

Tiie unknown, as he came near the tower, was more cautious 
and stealthy in his approaches. He was joined mider a clump 
of trees by another person, and they, had much whispermg 
together. A light was burning in the chamber of Inez; the 
curtain was down, but the casement was left oi^en, as the 
night was warm. After some time, the light was extinguished. 
A considerable interval elapsed. Tlie cavaher and his com- 
X^anion remained under covert of the trees, as if keeping 
v/atch. At length they approached the tower, with silent and 
cautious steps. The cavaher received a dark-lantern from liis 
companion, and threw off his cloak. The other then softly 
brought something from the clum]^ of trees, which Antonio 
perceived to be a hght ladder : he placed it against the wall, 
and the serenader gently ascended. A sickening sensation 
came over Antonio. Here was indeed a confirmation of every 
fear. He was about to leave the place, never to return, when 
I-c beard a stifled shriek from Inez's chamber. 
, in an instant, the fellow that stood at the foot of the ladder 
lay prostrate on the ground. Antonio wrested a stiletto from 
his nerveless ha.nd, and hurried up the ladder. He sprang in 
at uic window, and found Inez struggling in the grasp of his 
fancied rival; the latter, disturbed from his prey, ca.ught up 
his lantern, turned its light full upon Antonio, and, drawing 
his sword, made a furious assault ; luckily the student saw the 
light gleam along the blade, and parried the thrust with the 
sthetto. A fierce, but unequal combat endued. Antonio fought 
exposed to the full glare of the light, while his antagonist was 
in shadow: his stiletto, too, was but a poor defence against 



THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA, 125 

a rapier. He saw that notliing would save him but closing 
with his adversary, and getting within his weapon : he rushed 
furiously upon him, and gave him a severe blow with the 
stiletto ; but received a wound m return from the shortened 
sword. At the same moment, a blow was inflicted from be- 
hind, by the confederate, who had ascended the ladder; it 
felled him to the floor, and his antagonists made their escape. 

By this time, the cries of Inez had brought her father and 
the domestic into the room. Antonio was found weltering in 
his blood, and senseless. He was conveyed to the chamber of 
the alciiymist, who now Tepaid in kind the attentions which 
the student had once bestowed upon him. Among his varied 
knowledge he possessed some skill in surgery, which at this 
moment was of more value than even his chymical lore. He 
stanched and dressed the wounds of his disciple, which on ex- 
amination proved less desperate than he had at first appre- 
hended. For a few days, however, his case was anxious, and 
attended with danger. The old man watched over him with 
the affection of a parent. He felt a double debt of gratitude 
towards him, on account of his daughter and himself ; he loved 
him too as a faithful and zealous disciple ; and he dreaded lest . 
the world should be deprived of the promising talents of so 
aspiring an alchymist. 

An excellent constitution soon medicined his wounds; and 
there was a balsam in the looks and words of Inez, that had a 
healing effect on the still severer wounds which he carried in 
his heart. She displayed the strongest interest in his safety ; 
she called liim her deliverer, her presorvei'T It seemed as if 
her grateful disposition sought, in the warmth of its acknowl- 
edgments, to repay him for past coldness. But what most 
contributed to Antonio's recovery, was her explanation con- 
cerning his supposed rival. It was some time since he had first 
beheld her at church, and he had ever since persecuted her 
with his attentions. He had beset her in her walks, until slie 
had been obliged to confine herself to the house, except wlion 
accompanied by her father. He had besieged her with letters. 
serenades, and every art by which ho could urge a vehement., 
but clandestine and dishonourable suit. The scene in the ga,r- 
den was as much of a surprise to her as to Antonio. Her per- 
secutor had been attracted by her voice, and had found his way 
over a ruined part of the wall. He had come upon her una- 
wares ; was detaining her by force, and pleading his insulting 
passion, when the appearance of the student interrupted him, 



126 BBAGEBRIDQE HALL. 






and enabled her to make her escape. She had forborne to med 
tion to her father the persecution which she STiifered; she 
■wished to spare him unavailing anxiety and distress, and had 
determined to confine herself more rigorously to the house; 
though it appeared that ,even here she had not been safe from 
his daring enterprise. 

Antonio inquired whether she knew the name of this impet- 
uous admirer? She replied that he had made his advances; 
under a fictitious name; but that she had heard him once 
called by the name of Don Ambrosio de Loxa. 

Antonio knew Iiun, by report, for one of the most determined 
and dangerous libertines in all Granada. Artful, accomplished, 
and, if he chose to be so, insinuating; but daring and headlong 
in the pursuit of his pleasures ; violent and implacable in his 
resentments. He rejoiced to find that Inez had been pr®of 
against his seductions, and had been inspired with aversion by 
his splendid profligacy ; but he trembled to thinlc of the dangers 
she had run, and he felt solicitude about the dangers that must 
yet environ her. 

At present, however, it was probable the enemy had a tem- 
porary quietus.!. The traces of blood had been found for some 
distance from the ladder, until they were lost am.ong thickets ; 
and as nothing had been heard or seen of him since, it was con- 
eluded that he had been seriously wounded. 

As the student recovered from Ms wounds, he was enabled 
to join Inez and her father in their domestic intercourse. The 
chamber in wliic^ they usually met had probably been a saloon 
of state in former times. The floor was of marble ; the walls 
partially covered ^vith rempdns of tapestry ; the chairs, richly 
carved and gilt, were crazed with age, and covered with tar- 
nished and tattered brocade. Against the wall hung a long 
rusty rapier, the only relic that the old man retained of the 
chivalry of his ancestors. There might have been something 
to provoke a smile, in the contrast between the mansion and 
its inhabitants ; between present poverty and the graces of 
departed grandeur; but the fancy of the student had thrown 
so much romance about the edifice and its inmates, that every 
tiling was clothed with charms. The phflosopher, with his 
broken-do^vn pride, and his strange pursuits, seemed to com- 
port with the melancholy ruin he inhabited ; and there was a 
native elegance of spirit about the daughter, tha.t showed she 
would have graced the mansion in its happier days. 

What delicious moments were these to the student ! Inez 



THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 127 

was no longer coy and reserved. She was naturally artless 
and confiding ; though the kind of persecution she had experi- 
enced from one admirer had rendered her, for a time, suspi- 
cious and circumspect toward the other. She now felt an en- 
tire confidence in the sincerity and worth of Antonio, mingled 
with an overflowing gratitude. When her eyes met his, they 
beamed witli sympathy and kindness ; and Antonio, no longer 
haunted by the idea of a favoured rival, once more aspii'ed to 
success. 

At these domestic meetings, however, ho had little opportu- 
nity of paying his court, except by looks. The alchymist, sup- 
posing him, hke himself, absorbed in the study of aichymy, 
endeavoured to cheer the tediousness of his recovery by long 
conversations on the art. He even brought several of his half- 
burnt volumes, which the student had once rescued from the 
flames, and rewarded him for their preservation, by reading 
copious passages. He would entertain him with the great and 
good acts of Mamel, whiclthe effected through means of the 
philosopher's stone, relieving widows and orphans, founding 
hospitals, building churches, and what not ; or with the inter- 
rogatories of Eing Kalid, and the answers of Morienus, the 
Roman hermit of Hierusalem ; or the profound questions which 
Elardus. a necromancer of the province of Catalonia, put to 
the devil, touching the secrets of aichymy, and the devil's 
replies. 

All these were couched in occult language, abxiost uninteUi- 
gible to the unpractised ear of tae disciple. Indeed, the old 
man delighted in the mystic phi^ases and symbolical jargon in 
which the writers that have treated of aichymy have wrapped 
their communications; rendering them incomprehensible ex- 
cept to the initiated. With what rapture would he elevate his 
voice at a triumphant passage, announcing the grand dis- 
covery ! " Thou shalt see," would he exclaim, in the words of 
Henry Kuhnrade,* "the stone of the philosophers (our king) 
go forth of the bed-chamber of his glassy sepulchre into the 
threatre of this world ; that is to say, regenerated and made 
perfect, a shining carbuncle, a most temperate splendour, whose 
most k subtle and depurated parts are inseparable, united into 
one with a coneordial mixture, exceeding equal, transparent as 
chrystal, shining red like a ruby, permanently colouring or ring- 
ing, fixt in all temptations or tryals ; yea, in the examination 

* Ampliitheatre of the Eternal Wisdom. 



128 BUAOEBBIBGE HALL. 

of the burning sulphur itself, and the devouring waters, and in 
the most vehement persecution of the fire, always incombusti- 
ble and permanent as a salamander !" 

The student had a high veneration for the fathers of alchymy, 
and a profound respect for his instructor ; but what was Henry 
Kuhnrade, Geber, Lully, or even Albertus Magnus himself, 
compared to the countenance of Inez, which presented such a 
page of beauty to his perusal? While, therefore, the good 
alchymist VA^as dohng out knowledge by the hour, his disciple 
would forget books, alchymy, every ihuig but the lovely object 
before him. Inez, too, unpractised in the science of the heart, 
was sradually becoming fascinated by the silent attentions of 
her lover. Day by day, she seemed'more and more perplexed 
by the kindhng and strangely pleasing emotions of her bosom. 
Her eye was often cast down in thought. Blushes stole to her 
cheek without any apparent cause, and light, half -suppressed 
sighs would f oUow these short fits of musing. Her httle bal- 
lads, though the same that she had always sung, yet breathed 
a more tender spirit. Either the tones of her voice were more 
soft and touching, or some passages were delivered with a feel- 
ing she had never before given them. Antonio, beside his love 
for the abstruse sciences, had a pretty turn for music; and 
never did philosopher touch the guitar more tastefully. As, by 
degrees, he conquered the mutual embarrassment that kept 
them asunder, he ventured to accompany Inez in some of her 
songs. He had a voice fuU of fire and tenderness : as he sang, 
one would have thought, from the kindling blushes of his com- 
panion, that he had been pleading his own passion in her ear. 
Let those who would keep two youthful hearts asunder, beware 
of music. Oh ! this leaning over chairs, and conning the same 
music-book, and entwining of voices, and melting away in 
harmonies!— the German waltz is nothing to it. 

The worthy alchymist saw nothing of all this. His mind 
could admit of no idea that was not connected with the dis- 
covery of the grand arcanum, and he supposed his youthful 
coadjutor equally devoted. He was a mere child as to human 
nature; and, as to the passion of love, v^^hatever he might once 
have felt of it, he had lo-ng since forgotten that there was, such 
an idle passion in existence. But, while he dreamed, the silent 
amour went on. The very quiet and seclusion of the place 
were favourable to the growth of romantic passion. The open- 
ing bud of love wa,s able to put forth leaf by leaf, without an 
adverse wind to check its growth. There v/ as neither officious 



TEE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 129 

:-s=rer ^^^^^^ st^"^ 

'°' rit^l^:nln^"^:<iT^oil..r without the aid 

:,£ L^-S^^S^- Jhoy ^"P^^'^^^'d t of the rocks that 

SZ-kblath Sfsurfaco. Happy lovex.! who wanted 
'^t^Un^^o their felicity compieoe, but the discovery of 



■^fSh'^SrSslealthwas sufficiently restored to ena- 

imbrosio ^'ecovercd uom his ^voo^^ o P^ ^^^^^ ^^^ ^^ 

f TL knT^tnTto be tSptcable to suffer hi. defeat to 
heard, he knew liim lo ue t i ^^ j^- ^^^^ .-^^re 

pass XrSoTi any dii^ St%^^ a<:couiphshi.ent 
unavadmg to S.0P at any tt ^ ^ ^ ^.^^^^ ^^ ^^^^ alchymist 

£SS-^ -XSosed .!lfat they should abandon the 

^^JJIirtSS-'^St- "in Valentia, poor h^^ Wt 
worthv and affectionate. Among them you will find ti<;na 



of Valentia.* 



.Hc-e are the strongest s»s. the -e^-t wlnes, the exceHen st^a,m^^^ 
,V„.e,ves ;-f;° ™;™:f,r^^,; "^^ol-er^o n.av s.eU this soy, ho,o.e ho ccne. 



^ Here are wic aKiw.^v.^- ....—., Q,-.oin The very bruit animuisjiiduc 

thraiselves boas of rosemary, ''"'^ """X. '''?', -,.^,. ,mell this sovl before he cornea 
U a. sea, if the ,vi„de ^^°;;'l°Xfi£°lroSoZZm scent it casts. As it is the 
'"''■f=h«°'''-™--'"r'f,''S?.?fv!, ':™ 'st ?lin.e of all Spain, and they co.nmonly 



the heavens which huns over th;s citie.-UoAVELi. s l^ue 



^30 ^ BRACEBEIBOE HALL. 



1 



To recruit his strength, the student suspended his tofls in II 
aboratory, and spent the few remainin!? days before d«rfi? ^ 
m taking a farewell look at th. ^n.^j£^':::^Zs:riZ 
da. He lelt retiirnmg health and vigour as he inhile^ tl,^ 
temperate breezes that play about itth4 aSS^ys^tS 
ofmsmmdcont^-ibutedtohisrapid recovery. Inezwas ot 
the companion of his walks. Her descent, by the mXrt side 
from one of the ancient Moorish families gave hS an interl 
m this once favourite seat of Arabian powfr. Shi gLed v S 

was' flrrwXth' rTi.*^<^^f n— lents, and hfrmemS 
was hUed with the traditional tales and baUads of Moorisl 

ar;Tur^-of ."^'f ;,!''^ '""^"'-'^ ^^"^ ^1^^ '1*1 l«'l. and the^ on 
llr^Zf f ^^^"'■'^ ''^'"^' ^^'^ P™''"««d an effect upon hei 
chaiaoter, and given it a tinge of what, in modern days wouU 
be termed romance. AU this was called into full forc?by t"ii, 

moun?Sn ofaf ^r^T '^*^'?"«'. ^h^^ ^^ ascended to the 
mountain ot the Sun, where is situated the Generaliiie the 
palace of pleasure, in the days of Moorish domiSo" now ! 
gloomy convent of Capuchins. . They had wandered abouHts 
garden among groves of orange, citron, and cypress wW 
the watei-s leaping m torrents, or gushing in fountaiiT or 

" The e"if "''^'r^ 'ff ^" *^'' ^'^ -*h musi^'nd" 'esh- 
ness. There is a melancholy mingled with all the beauties of 
this garden that gi-aduaUy stole over the feehngs of the lovers 

JZ" T if 1""/ '^' '"^ ^*°^y °^ Pa«t times. It waL the 
favounte abode of the lovely queen of Granada, where sl?^ was 

wafwloo^ *^1'/f#'i*'^ °^ - S-y «n<i voluptuous court T 

Itvr^ 1.1d ? ' ^ '\ ^^^ "'''' ^''^^^■^ °f ^o^««. that her slan- 
deieis la id tne case story of her dishonour, and struck a fatal 
blow to the hue of the gallant Abencerrages 

Tne whole garden has a look of ruin and neglect Manv of 
the fountains are dry and broken; the streams W wan^erec 
from their marble channels, and are choked by weeds and y!' 
low eaves. The reed whistles to the wind, wherlit hS on": 
sported among roses, and shaken peiWe from he otn"'" 
blossom. The convent-beU flings its suUeii sound ^e 
orowsy vesper-hymn floats along these solitudes which once 
x-esounded with the song, and the dance, and the Cert ^M 
nade Well may the Moors lament overthe lossof rhTsearSiTvi 
paradise; well may they remember it in their prayers and! 
beseech Heaven torestore it to the faithful; weU may'thSrI 



TEE tiTUDE:NT OF ;SALAMA^CA, 131 • 

ambassadors smite their brea??ts when they behold these monu- 
ments of their race, and sit down and weep among the fading 
glories of Granada I 

It is impossible to wander about these scenes of departed love 
and gayety, and not feel the tenderness of the heart awakened. 
It was then that Antonio first ventured to breathe his passion, 
and to express by words what his eyes had long since so elo- 
quently revealed. He made his a^iowal with fervour, but with 
frankness. He had no gay prospects to hold out: he was a 
poor scholar, dependent on his ' ' good spirits to feed and clothe 
him." But a woman in love is no interested calculator. Inez 
hstened to him with downcast eyes, but in them was a humid 
gleam that showed her heart was with bun. She had no pru- 
dery in her nature ; and she had not been sufficiently in society 
iio acquire it. Slie loved him with all the absence of worldli- 
ness of a genuine woman; and, amidst timid smiles and 
blushes, he drew from her a modest acknowledgment of her 
alfection. 

They wandered a.bout the garden, with that sweet intoxica- 
tion of the soul which none but happy lovers know. The world 
about them was all fairy land ; and, indeed, it spread forth one 
of its fairest scenes before their eyes, as if to fulfil their dream 
of earthly happiness. They looked out from between gi'oves of 
orange, upon the towers of Granada below them ; the ma.gnin- 
cent plain of the Vega beyond, streaked with evening sunshine, 
and the distant hills tinted with rosy and purple hues: it 
seemed an emblem of the happy future, that love and hope 
were decking out for them. 

As if to make the scene complete, a group of Andalusians 
struck up a dance, m one of the vistas of the garden, to the 
guitai'S of two wandering musicians. The Spanish music is 
V7ild and plaintive, yet the people dance to it with spirit and 
enthusiasm. The picturesque figures of the dancers ; the girls 
with their hair in silken nets that hung in knots and tassels 
down their backs, their mantillas floating round their graceful 
forms, their slender feet peeping from under their basquinas, 
their arms tossed up in the air to play the castanets, had a 
beautiful effect on this airy height, Avith the rich evening land- 
scape spreading out below them. 

When the dance was ended, two of the^arties approached 
Antonio and Inez ; one of them began a soft and tender Moorish 
ballad, accompanied by the other on the lute. It alluded to 
the story of the garden, the wrongs of the fair q«een of Gra- 



132 BRACEBBILGI^ HALL, _ ■ 

nada, and the misfortunes of the Abencerra-ges. It was one of 
those old ballads that abound in this part of Spain, and live, 
like echoes, about the ruins of Moorish greatness. The heart 
of Inez was at that moment open to every tender impression ; 
the tears rose into ]ier eyes, as she listened to the tale. The 
singer approached nearer to her ; she was striking in her ap- 
pearance ; —young, beautiful, with a mixture of wildnegs and 
melancholy in her fine black eyes. She fixed them mournfully 
and expressively on Inez, and, suddenly varying her manner, 
sang another ballad, which treated of impending danger and , 
treachery. All this might have passed for a mere accidental i: 
caprice of the singer, had there not been something in her look, j 
manner, and gesticulation that made it pointed and startling. 

Inez was about to ask the meaning of this evidently personal 
ap]:)lication of the song, when she v/ as interrupted by Antonio, 
who gently drew her from the place. Whilst she had been lost 
in attention to the music, he had remarked a gToup of men, in 
the shadows of the trees, whispering together. They were 
enveloped m the broad hats and great cloaks so much worn hj 
the Spanish, and, while they were regarding Imnsclf and Inez 
attentively, seemed anxious to avoid observation. Not know- 
ing what might be their character or intention, he hastened to 
quit a place w^here the gathering shadows of evening might ex- 
pose them to intrusion and insult. On their way down the 
hill, as they passed through the wood of elm's, mingled v/itli 
poplars and oleanders, that skirts the road leading from the 
Aihambra, he again saw these men apparently following at a 
distance; and he a^fterwards caught sight of them among the 
trees on the banks of the Darro. He sa,id nothing on the sub- 
ject to Inez, nor her father, for he would not awaken unneces- 
sary alarm ; but he felt at a loss how to ascertain or to avert 
any machinations that might be devising against the helpless 
inhabitants of the tower. 

He took his leave of them late at night, full of this perplex- 
ity. As he left the dreary old pile, he saw some one lur]?:ing in 
the shadow of the wall, apparently watching his movements. 
He hastened a.fter the figure, but it glided awa;/^, and dis- 
appeared among some ruins. Shortly after he heard a low- 
whistle, which was answered from a little distance. He had no 
longer a doubt but that some mischief was on foot, and turned 
to hasten back to the tower, and put its inmat<5s on their 
guard. He had scarcely turned^ however, before he found 
himself suddenly seized from behind by some one of Herculean 



TUE STUDENT OF iSALAMAXCA. 133 

••ength. His struggles were in vain ; he was surrounded by 
./med men. One threw a niautlo over him that stifled his 
cries, and enveloped him in its folds ; and he was hurried oft' 
with irresistible rapidity. 

The next day passed without the appearance of Antonio at 
the alchymist's. Another, and another day succeeded, and 
yet he did not come ; nor had any thing been heard of him at 
his lodgings. His absence caused, at first, surprise and con- 
jecture, and at length alarm. Inez recollected the singular 
intimations of the ballad-singer upon the mountain, which 
seemed to warn her of impending danger, and her mind was 
full of vague forebodings. She sat listening to every sound at 
the gate, or footstep on the stairs. She would take up her 
guitar and strike a few notes, but it would not do ; her heart 
was sickening with suspense and anxiety. She had never be- 
fore felt what it was to be really lonely. She now was con- 
scious of the force -of that attachment which had taken posses- 
sion of her breast ; for never do we know how much we love, 
never do we know how necessary the object of our love is to 
our happiness, until we experience the weary void of separa- 
tion. 

The philosopher, too, felt the absence of his disciple almost 
as sensibly as did his daughter. The animating buoyancy of 
the youtli had inspired him with new ardour, and had given to 
hislabourn the charm of full companionship. However, he had 
resources and consolations of which his daughter was desti- 
tute. His jDursuits were of a nature to occupy every thought, 
and keep the spirits in a state of continual excitement. Cer- 
tain indications, too, had lately manifested themselves, of the 
most favourable nature. Forty days and forty nights had the 
process gone on successfully ; the old man's hopes were con- 
sta-ntly rising, and he now considered the glorious moment 
once more at hand, when he should obtain not merely the 
major lunaria, but hkewise the tinctura Solaris, the means of 
multiplying gold, and of prolonging existence. He remained, 
therefore, continually shut up in his laboratory, watching his 
furnace ; for a moment's inadvertency might once more defeat 
all his expectations. 

He was sitting one evening at one of his solitary vigils, 
wrapped up in meditation ; the hour was late, and his neigh- 
bour, the owl, was hooting from the battlement of the tower, 
when he heard the door open behind him. Supposing it to 
bo ills daughter coming to take her leave of him for the night. 



1^4 BBAGEBMBOE HALL. 

as was herfrequent practice, he called her by name, but a harsh 
voice me this ear in reply. He was grasped by the arms, and, 
looking up, perceived three stxange men in the chamber. He 
attempted to shake them off, but in vain. He called for help, 
but they scoffed at his cries. "Peace, dotard!" cried one: 
"think'st thou the servants of the most holy inquisition are 
to be daunted by thy clamours? Comrades, away with himl" 

Without heeding his remonstrances and entreaties, they 
seized upon his books and papers, took some note of the apart- 
ment, and the utensils, and then bore liim off a prisoner. 

Inez, left to herseff, had passed a sad and lonely evening; 
seated by a casement which looked into the garden, she had 
pensively watched star after star sparkle out of the blue depths 
of the sky, and was indulging a crowd of anxious thoughts 
about her lover, until the rising tears began to flow. She was 
suddenly alarmed by the sound of voices, that seemed to como 
from a distant part of the mansion. There was, not long after, 
a noise of several pereons descending the stairs. Surprised at 
these unusual sounds in their lonely habitation, she remained 
for a few moments in a state of trembling, yet indistinct appre- 
hension, when the servant rushed into the room, with terror 
in her countenance, and informed her that her father was car- 
ried off by armed men. 

Inez did not stop to h-ear further, but flew down-stairs to 
overtake them. She had scarcely passed the tlu*eshold, when 
she found herself in the grasp of strangers.— " Away !— away !'* 
cried she, wildly, "do not stop me — let me follow my father." 

" We come to conduct you to him, senora," said one of the 
men, respectfully. 

" Where is he, then?" 

" He is gone to Granada," rephed the man: "an unexpected 
circumstance requires his presence there immediately ; but he 
is among friends." 

" We have no friends in Granada," said Inez, drawing back; 
but then the idea of Antonio rushed into her mind ; something 
relating to him might have call her father thither. "Is senor 
Antonio de Castros with him?" demanded she, with agitation. 

' ' I know not, senora, " replied the man. " It is very possible. 
I only know that your father is among friends, and is anxious 
for you to follow him." 

"Let us go, then," cried she, eagerly. The men led her a 
Mttle distance to where a mule was Avaiting, and, assisting 
her to mount, they conducted hsr slowly towards the city. 



THE STUDEI^T OF SALAMANCA. 135 

Granada was oli that evening a scene of fanciful revel. It 
was one of the festivals of the ]\Taestranza, an association of 
tlie nobility to keep up some of the gallant customs of ancient 
chivalry. There had been a representation of a tournament 
in one of the squares ; the streets would still occasionally re- 
sound with the beat of a solitary di*um, or the bray of a trum- 
pet from some straggling party of revellers. Sometimes they 
were met by cavahers, richly dressed in ancient costumes, at- 
tcnded by their squires; and at one time they passed in sight 
of a palace brilliantly illuminated, from whence came the min- 
gled sounds of music and the dance. Shortly after, they camo 
to the square where the mock tournament had been held. It 
was thronged by the populace, recreating themselves among 
booths and stalls where refreshments were sold, and the glare 
of torches showed the temporary galleries, and gay-coloured 
awnings, and armorial trophies, and other prraphemalia of 
the show. The conductors of Inez endeavoured to keep out of 
observation, and to traverse a gloomy part of the square ; but 
they wei*e detained at one place hj the pressure of a crowd sur- 
rounding a party of wandering musicians, singing one of those 
ballads of which the Spanish populace are so passionately fond. 
The torches'which were held by some of the crowd, threw a 
strong mass of light upon Inez, and the sight of so beautiful a 
being, without mantilla or veil, looking so bewildered, and 
conducted by men who seemed to take no gratification in the 
surrounding gayety, occasioned expressions of curiosity. One 
of the ballad-singers approached, and striking her guitar with 
peculiar earnestness, began to sing a doleful air, full of sinister 
forebodings. Inez started with surprise. It was the same bal- 
lad-singer that had addressed her in the garden of the Gene- 
raliffe. It was the same air that she had then sung. It spoke 
of impending dangers ; they seemed, indeed, to be thickening 
around her. She wrs anxious to speak with the girl, and to 
ascertain whether she really had a knowledge of any definite 
evil that was threatening her ; but, as she attempted to address 
her, the mule, on which she rode, was suddenly seized, and led 
forcibly through the throng by one of her conductors, while 
she saw another addressmg menacing words to the ballad- 
Singer. The latter raised her hand with a warning gesture, as 
Inez lost sight of her. 

Wliile she was yet lost in perplexity, caused by this singular 
occurrence, they stopped at the gnte of a large mansion. One 
of her attendants knocked, the door was opened, and they en- 



jgg BEACEBliWGE HALL. 

tered a paved eoiirfc. "Where are we?" demanded Inez, with 
anxiety. ''At the house of a friend, senora," rephed the man. 
'^ Ascend this staircase with me, and in a moment you will 
meet your father." 

They ascended a staircase, that led to a suite of splendid 
apartments. They passed tlirough several, mitii they came to 
an inner chamber. The door opened — some one approached; 
but what was her terror at perceiving, not her father, but Don 
Ambrosio ! 

The men who had seized upon the alchymist had, at least, 
been more honest m theu' professions. They were, indeed, 
familiars of the inquisition. He was conducted in silence to 
the gloomy prison of that horrible tribunal. It was a mansion 
whose very aspect withered joy, and almost shut out hope. It 
was one of those hideous abodes which the bad passions of men 
conjure up in this fair world, to rival the fancied dens of 
demons and the accursed. 

Day after day went heavily by, without anything to mark 
the lapse of time, but the decline and reappearance of the light 
that feebly glimmered through the narrow window of the dun- 
geon in which the unfortunate alchymist was buried rather 
than confined. His mind was harassed with uncertainties and 
fears about his daughter, so helpless and inexperienced. He 
endeavoured to gather tidings of her from the man who brought 
his daily portion of food. The fellow stared, as if astonished 
at being asked a question in that mansion of silence and mys- 
tery, but departed without saying a word. Every succeeding 
attempt was equally fruitless. 

The poor alchymist was oppressed by many griefs ; and it 
was not the least, that he had been again interrupted in his 
labours on the very point of success. Never was alchymist so 
near attaining the golden secret— a Mttle longer, and all his 
hopes would have been reahzed. The thoughts of these disap- 
pomtments afiiicted him more even than the fear of all that he 
might suffer from the merciless inquisition. His waking 
thoughts would follow him into his dreams. He would be 
transported in fancy to his laboratory, busied again among re- 
torts and alembics, and surrounded by Lully, by D'Abano, by 
Olybius, and the other masters of the sublime art. Tne mo- 
ment of projection would arrive ; a seraphic form would rise 
out of the furnace, holding forth a vessel containing the pre- 
cious elixir; but, before he could grasp the prize, he woii3.d 
awake, and find himself in a dungeon. 



THE STUDENT OF SALAMAyCA. 137 

All the devices of inquisitorial inf-enuit;^ weis employed to 
ensnare the old man, and to dr? y from hiii evidence that 
might be brought agair.st himself, and might corroborate cer- 
tain secret information that had been given against him. He 
had been accused of practising necromancy and judicial astrol- 
ogy, and a cloud of evidence had been secretly brought forward 
to substantiate the charge. It would be tedious to enumerate 
all the cii-cumstances, apparently corroborative, which hi^d 
been industriously cited by the secret accuser. The sileiice 
which prevailed about the tower, its desolateness, the very q<iiet 
of its irJiabitants, had been adduced as proofs that something 
sinister was perpetrated within. The alchymist's conv^rsG- 
tions and soliloquies in the garden had been overheard and mis- 
represented. The lights and strange appearances at night, in 
the tower, were given with violent exaggerations. Snrieks 
and yells were said to have been heard from thence at mid- 
night, when, it was confidently asserted, the old man raised 
familiar spirits by his incantations, and even compelled tho 
dead to rise from their graves, and answer to his questions. 

Th- alchymist, according to the custom of the inquisition, 
was kept in complete ignorance of his accuser ; of the witnesses 
produced against him; even of the crimes of which he was ac- 
cused. He was examined generally, whether he knew why he 
wac arrested, and was conscious of any guilt that might de- 
serve the notice of the holy office? He was examined as to liis 
country, his life, his habits, his pursuits, his actions, and opin- 
ions. The old man was frank and simple in his replies ; he was 
conscious of no guilt, capable of no art, practised in no dis- 
simulation. After receiving a general admonition to bethink 
himseK whether he had not committed any act deserving of 
punishment and to prepare, by confession, to secure the well' 
known mercy of the tribunal, he was remanded to his cell. 

He was now visited in his dungeon by crafty famihars of the 
inquisition; who, under pretence of sympathy and kindness, 
came to beguile the tediousness of his imprisonment with 
friendly conversation. They casually introduced the subject 
of alchymy, on which they touched with great caution and 
pretended indifference. There was no need of such craftiness. 
The honest enthusiast had no suspicion in his nature : the mo- 
ment they touched upon his favourite theme, he forgot his mis- 
fortunes and imprisonment, and broke forth mto rhapsodies 
about the divine science. 

The conversation wax artfully turned oo the discussion af 



1QQ BRACEBIUDGE HALL. 

element" ry beings. The alchymist readily avowed his behef 
in them ; and that there had been instances of their attending 
upon iDhilosophers, and administering to their wishes. He 
related many miracles said to have been performed by Apol- 
lonius Thyaneus, through the aid of spirits or demons ; inso- 
much that he was set up by the heathens in opposition to the 
Messiah; and was even regarded with reverence by many 
Christians. The famihars eagerly demanded whether he be- 
lieved ApoUonius to be a true and worthy philosopher. The 
unaffected piety of the alchymist protected him even in the 
midst of his simplicity; for he condemned ApoUonius as a 
sorcerer and an unpostor. No art could draw from him an 
admission that he had ever employed or invoked spiritual 
agencies in the prosecution of his pursuits, though he believed 
himself to have been frequently impeded by theu^ invisible 
mterference. 

The inquisitoi-s were sorely vexed at not being able to inveigle 
him into a confession of a criminal nature ; they attributed their 
failure to craft, to obstinacy, to every cause but the right one, 
namely, that the harmless visionary had nothing gTiilty to con 
fess. They had abundant proof of a secret nature against him ; 
but it was the practice of the inquisition to endeavour to procure 
confession from the prisoners. An auto da fe was at hand ; 
the worthy fathers were eager for his conviction, for they were 
always anxious to have a good number of culprits condemned 
to the stake, to grace these solemn triumphs. He was at 
length brought to a final examination. 

The chamber of trial was spacious and gloomy. At one end 
was a huge crucifix, the standard of the inquisition. A long 
table extended through the centre of the room, at which sat 
tlie inquisitors and their secretary ; at the other end, a stool 
wafj placed for the prisoner. 

He was brought in, according to custom, bare-headed and 
bare-legged. He was enfeebled by confinement and affliction; 
by constantly brooding over the unknown fate of his child, 
and the disastrous interruption of his experiments. He sat 
bowed down and listless; his head sun'i upon his breast; his 
whole appearance that of one " pas u hope, abandoned, and by 
himself given over." 

The accusation alleged against him was now brought forward 
in a specific form; lie was called upon by name, Fehx de 
Vasquez, formerly of Castile, to answer to the charges of 
necromancy and demonology. He was told that the charges 



THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 139 

were amply substantiated; and was aeked whether he was 
ready, by full confession, to throw hiniself upon the well- 
known mercy of the holy inquisition. 

The philosopher testified some slight surprise at the nature 
of the accusation, but simply replied, "I am innocent." 

"What proof have you to give of your innocence?" 

"It rather remains for you to prove your charges," said the 
old man. " I am a stranger and a sojourner in the land, and 
know no one out of the doors of my dweUing. I can give 
nothing in my vindication but the word of a nobleman and a 
CastiMan." 

The inquisitor shook his head, and went on to repeat the 
various inquiries that had before been made as to his mode of 
life and pursuits. The poor alchymist was too feeble and too 
weary at heart to make any but brief replies. He requested 
that some man of science might examine his laboratory, and all 
his books and papers, by which it would be made abundantly 
evident that he was merely engaged in the study of alchymy. 

To this the inquisitor observed, that alchymy had become a 
mere covert for secret and deadly sins. That the practisers of 
it were apt to scruple at no means to satisfy their inordinate 
greediness of gold. Some had been known to use spells and 
impious ceremonies; to conjure the aid of evil spirits; nay, 
even to sell their souls to the enemy of mankind, so that they 
might riot in boundless wealth while hving. 

The poor alchymist had heard all patiently, or, at least, pas- 
sively. He had disdained to vindicate his name otherwise 
than by his word ; he had smiled at the accusations of sorcery, 
wh6n apphed merely to himself; but w^hen the sublime ai-t, 
which had been the study and passion of his Hfe, was assailed, 
he could no longer listen in silence. His head gradually rose 
from his bosom ; a hectic colour came in faint streaks to his 
cheek; played about there, disappeared, returned, and at 
length kindled into a burning glow. The clammy dampness 
dried from his forehead; his eyes, wliich had nearly been 
extingTiished, lighted up again, and burned with their wonted 
and visionary fires. He entered into a vindication of his fa- 
vourite art. His voice at first was feeble and broken ; but it 
gathered strength as he proceeded, until it rolled in a deep and 
sonorous volume. He gTadually rose from his seat, as he rose 
with his subject; he threw back the scanty black mantle 
which had hitherto wi*apped his limbs ; the very uncouthiiess 
of his form and looks gave an impressive effect to what ho 



240 BRACEBllIDQE HALL. 

uttered ; it was as though a corpse had become suddenly ani- 
mated. 

He repelled with scorn the aspersions cast upon alchymy by 
the ignorant and vulgar. He affirmed it to be the mother of 
ail art and science, citing the opinions of Paracelsus, Sandi- 
vogius, Eaymond Lully, and others, in support of his asser- 
tions. He maintained that it was pure and innocent and 
honourable both in its purposes and means. What were its 
objects? The perpetuation of life and youth, and the produc- 
tion of gold. "The enxir vitse,-' said he, "is no charmed 
potion, but merely a concentration of those elements of vitality 
which natui-e harj scattered through her w^orks. The philoso- 
pher's stono, or tincture, or powder, as it is variously called, is 
no necromantic talisman, but consists simply of thoso particles 
which gold contains within itself for its reproduction ; for gold, 
like other things, has its seed within itself, though bound up 
with inconceivable firmness, from the vigour of innate fixed 
salts and sulphurs. In seeking to discover the elixi.r of life, 
then," continued he, *' we seek only to apply some of nature's 
own specifics against the disease and decay to which our bodies 
are subjected ; and what else does the physician, when he tasks 
his art. and uses subtle compounds and cunning distillations, 
to revive our languishing powers, and avert the stroke of death 
for a season? 

"In seeking to multiply the precious metals, also, we seek but 
to germinate and multiply, by natural means, a particular 
species of nature's productions; and what elso does the hus- 
bandman, who consults times and s-easons, and, by what might 
be deemed a natural magic, from the mere scattering of his 
hand, covers a whole plain with golden vegetation? The mys- 
teries of our art, it is true, are deeply and darkly hidden; but 
it requires so much the more innocence and purity -of thought, 
to penetrate unto them. No, father 1 the true alchymist must 
b^ pure in mind and body; he must be temperate, patient, 
chaste, watchful, meek, humble, devout. 'My son,' says 
Hermes Trismegestes, the great master of our art, ' my son, I 
recommend you above all things to fear God.' And indeed it is 
only by devout castigation of the senses, and purification of the 
soul that the alchymist is enabled to enter into the sacred 
chambers of truth. "Labour, pray, and read,' is the motto of 
our science. As De Nuysment well observes, ' These high and 
singular favours are granted unto none, save only unto the 
sons of Godj (that is to say, the virtuous and devout.) who, 



TllR .^TUUhWr UF SALAMA.\CA. 141 

under liis paternal benediction, have obtained the opening 
of the same, by the helping hand of the queen of arts, divine 
Philosophy. ' Indeed, so sacred has the nature of this know- 
ledge been considered, that we are told it has four times been 
expressly communicated by God to man, having made a part of 
that cabalistical wisdom which was revealed to Adam to con- 
sole him for the loss of Paradise; and to Moses in the bush, and 
to Solomon in a dream, and to Esdras by the angel. 

' ' So far from demons and malign spirits being the friends and 
abettors of the alchymist, they are the continual foes with 
which he has to contend. It is their constant endeavour to shut 
up the avenues to those truths wliich would enable him to rise 
above the abject state into which he has fallen, and return to that 
excellence which was liis original birthright. For what woidd 
be the effect of this length of days, and this abundant wealth, 
but to enable the possessor to go on from art to art, from science 
to science, with energies unimpaired by sickness, uninterrupted 
by death ? For this have sages and philosophers shut themselves 
up in ceUs and solitudes ; buried themselves in caves and dens 
of the earth; turning from the joys of life, and the pleasance of 
the world ; enduring scorn, poverty, persecution. For this was 
Raymond Lully stoned to death in ^lauritania. For this did 
the immortal Pietro D'Abano suffer persecution at Padua, 
and, when he escaped from his oppressors by death, was de- 
spitefully burnt in Q^^j. For this have illustrious men of all 
nations intrepidly suffered martyrdom. For this, if unmolest- 
ed, have they assiduously employed the latest hour of hfe, 
the expiring throb of existence ; hoping to the last that they 
might yet seize upon the prize for which they had struggled, 
and pluck themselves back even from the very jaws of the 
grave ! 

"For, when once the alchymist shall have attained the ob- 
ject of his toils; when the sublime secret shall be revealed to 
his gaze, how glorious will be the change in his condition! 
How will he emerge from his sohtary retreat, like the sun 
breaking forth from the darksome chamber of the night, and 
darting his beams throughout the earth ! Gifted with perpetual 
youth and boundless riches, to what heights of wisdom may he 
attain! How may he carry on, uninterrupted, the thread of 
knowledge, which has hitherto been snapped at the death of 
each philosopher! And, as the increase of wisdom is the in- 
crease of virtue, how may he become the benefactor of his 
f eUow-men ; dispensing, with liberal but cautious and discrimi- 



142 BRACEBRTDQE HALL. 

nating hand, that inexhaustible wealth which is at his disposal ; 
banishing poverty, which is the cause of so much sorrow and 
wickedness ; encouraging the arts ; promoting discoveries, and 
enlarging all the means of virtuous enjoyment ! His Hfe wiU 
be the connecting band of generations. History will live in his 
recollection; distant ages will speak with his tongue. The 
nations of the earth will look to him as their preceptor, and 
kings will sit at liis feet and learn A\dsdom. Oh glorious ! oh 
celestial alchymy !" — 

Here he was interrupted by the inquisitor, who had suffered 
him to go on thus far, in hopes of gathering something from his 
unguarded enthusiasm. " Senor," said he, this is all rambling, 
visionary talk. You are charged with sorcery, and in defence 
you give us a rhapsody about alchymy. Have you nothing 
better than this to offer in your defence?" 

The old man slowly resumed his seat, but did not deign a 
reply. The fire that had beamed in his eye gradually expired. 
His cheek resumed its wonted paleness ; but he did not relapse 
into inanity. He sat with a steady, serene, patient look, like 
one prepared not to contend, but to suffer. 

His trial continued for a long time, with cruel mockery of 
justice, for no witnesses were ever in this court confronted with 
the accused, and the latter had continually to defend himself in 
the dark. Some unknown and powerful enemy had alleged 
chccrges against the unfortunate alchymist, but who he could 
not imagine. Stranger and sojourner as he was in the land, 
soHtary and harmless in his pursuits, how could he have pro- 
voked such hostility? The tide of secret testimony, however, 
was too strong against him; he was convicted of the crime of 
magic, and condemned to expiate his sins at the stake, at the 
approaching auto da fe. 

While the unhappy alchymist was undergoing his trial at 
the inquisition, his daughter was exposed to trials no less 
severe. Don Ambrosio, into whose hands she had fallen, was, 
as has before been intimated, one of the most daring and lawless 
profligates in all Granada. He was a man of hot blood and 
fiery passions, who stopped at nothing in the gratification of 
his desires; yet with all this he possessed manners, address, 
and accomplishments, that had made him eminently successful 
among the sex. From the palace to the cottage he had extend- 
ed his amorous enterprises ; his serenades harassed the slum- 
bers of half the husbands in Granada; no balcony was too high 
for iiis adventurous attempts, nor any cottage too lowly for his 



THE STUDEJST OF SALAMANCA. 14:i 

perfidious seductions. Yet he was as fickle as he was ardent ; 
success had made him vain and capricious ; he had no sentiment 
to attach him to the victim of his arts ; and many a pale cheek 
and i.;dmg eye, languishing amidst the sparkling of jewels, and 
many a breaking heart, throbbing under the rustic bodice, 
bore testimony to his triumphs and his faithlessness. 

He was sated, however, by easy conquests, and wearied of a 
hfe of continual and prompt gratification. There had been a 
dogrcc of difficulty and entei-prise in the pursuit of Inez that he 
had never before experienced. It had aroused him from the 
monotony of mere sensual hfe, and stimulated him with the 
charm of adventure. He had become an epicure in pleasiu-e ; 
and now that he had this coy beauty in his power, he was de- 
termined to protract his enjoyment, by the gradual conquest of 
her scruples and downfall of her virtue. He was vain of his 
person and address, which he thought no woman could long 
withstand ; and it was a kind of trial of skill to endeavour to 
gain, by art and fascination, what he was secm-e of obtaining 
at any time by violence. 

When Inez, therefore, was brought into his presence by his 
emissaries, he affected not to notice her terror and surprise, but 
received her with formal and stately courtesy. He was too 
wary a fowler to flutter the bu-d when just entangled in the 
net. To her eager and wild inquiries about her farther, he 
begged her not to be alarmed ; that he was safe, and had been 
there, but was engaged elsewhere in an affair of moment, 
from which he would soon return ; in the meantime, he had 
left word that she should await his return in patience. After 
some stately expressions of general civility, Don Ambrosio 
made a ceremonious bow and retired. 

The mind of Inez was full of trouble and perplexity. Tlie 
stately formality of Don Ambrosio was so unexpected as to 
check the accusations and reproaches that were springing to her 
hps. Had he had evil designs, would he have treated her with 
such frigid ceremony when he had her in his power? But why, 
then, was she brought to his house ? Was not the mysterious 
disappearance of Antonio connected with this? A thought 
suddenly darted into her mind. Antonio had again met with 
Don Ambrosio— they had fought — Antonio was wounded — per- 
haps dying ! It was him to whom her father had gone — it was 
at his request that Don Ambrosio had sent for them, to soothe 
his dying moments! These, and a thousand such horiiblc sug- 
gestions, harassed her mind ; but she tried in vain to get in- 



144 BRAGEBIIJDGE HALL. 

formation from the domestics ; they knew nothing but that her 
father had been there, had gone, and would soon return. 
- Thus passed a night of tumultuous thought, and va.gue yet 
cruel apprehensions. She knew not what to do or what to 
beheve — whether she ought to fly, or to remain ; but if to fly, 
how was she to extricate herself? — and where was she to seek 
her father? As the day dawned without any intelligence of 
liim, her alarm increased; at length a message was brought 
from him, saying that circumstances prevented liis return to 
her, but begging her to hasten to him without delay. 

With an eager and throbbing heart did she set forth with the 
men that were to conduct her. She little thought, however, 
that she was merely changing her prison-house. Don Ambro- 
sio had feared lest she should be traced to his residence in 
Granada; or that he might be interrupted there before he could 
accomplish his plan of seduction. He had her now conveyed, 
therefore, to a mansion which he possessed in one of the moun- 
tain sohtudes in the neighbourhood of Granada ; a lonely, but 
beautiful retreat. In va.in, on her arrival, did she look around 
for her father or Antonio ; none but strange faces met her eye ; 
menials, profoundly respectful, but who knew nor saw anything 
but what their master pleased. 

She had scarcely arrived before Don Ambrosio made his ap- 
pearance, less stately in his manner, but still treating her with 
the utmost delicacy and deference. Inez was too much agitated 
and alarmed to be baffled by his courtesy, and became vehe- 
ment in her demand to be conducted to her father. 

Don Ambrosio now put on an appearance of the greatest em- 
bar rassm.ent and emotion. After some delay, and much pre- 
tended confusion, he at length confessed that the seizure of her 
farther was all a stratagem ; a mere false alarm, to procure him 
the present opportunity of having access to her, and endeavour- 
ing to mitigate that obduracy, and conquer that repugnance, 
which he declared had almost driven liim to distraction. 

He assured her that her father was again at home in safety, 
and occupied in his usual pursuits ; having been fully satisfied 
that his daughter was in honourable hands, and would soon be 
restored to him. It was in vain that she threw herself at his 
feet, and implored to be set at liberty; he only replied by gentle 
entreaties, that she would pardon the seeming violence he had to 
use ; and that she would trust a little vv hiie to his honour. ' ' You 
are here," said he, ^'absolute mistress of everything: nothing 
shall be said or done to offend vou : I wiU not even intrude 



THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 145 

upon your ear the unhappy passion that is devouring my heart. 
Should you require it, I will even absent myself from your 
presence; but, to part with you entirely at present, with your 
mind full of doubts and resentments, would be worse than 
death to me. No, beautiful Inez, you must first know me a 
little better, and know by my conduct that my passion for you 
is as delicate and respectful as it is vehement." 

The assurance of her father's safety had reheved Inez from 
one cause of torturing anxiety, only to render her fears the 
more violent on her own account. Don Ambrosio, however, 
continued to treat her with artful deference, that insensibly 
lulled her apprehensions. It is true she found herself a captive, 
but no advantage appeared to be taken of her helplessness. She 
soothed herself with the idea that a little while would suffice to 
convince Don Ambrosio o^ the fallacy of his hopes, and that 
he would be induced to restore her to her home. Her tran- 
sports of terror and affliction, therefore, subsided, in a few 
days, into a passive, yet anxious melancholy, with which she 
awaited the hoped-for event. 

In the meanwhile, all those artifices were employed that are 
calculated to charm the senses, ensnare the feelings, and dis- 
solve the heart into tenderness. Don Ambrosio was a master 
of the subtle arts of seduction. His very mansion breathed an 
enervating atmosphere of languor and delight. It was here, 
amidst twilight saloons and dreamy chambers, buried among 
groves of orange and myrtle, that he shut himself up at times 
from the prying world, and gave free scope to the gratification 
of his pleasures. 

The apartments were furnished in the most sumptuous and 
voluptuous manner ; the silken couches swelled to the touch, 
and sunk in downy softness beneath the slightest pressure. 
The paintings and statues, all told some classic tale of love, 
managed, however, with an insidious dehcacy ; which, while it 
banished the grossness that might disgust, was the more calcu- 
lated to excite the imagination. There the blooming Adonis 
was seen, not breaking aw^ay to pursue the boisterous chase, 
but crowned with flow^ers, and languishing in the embraces of 
celestial beauty. There Acis wooed his Galatea in the shade, 
with the Sicilian sea spreading in halcyon serenity before them. 
There were depicted groups of fauns and dryads, fondly re- 
clining in summer bowers, and listening to the liquid piping 
of the reed; or the wanton satyrs, surprising some wood- 
nvronh during her noontide slumber. There, too. on the 



146 BEAGEBlilDGE HALL. 

storied tapestry, miglit be seen the chaste Diana, stealing, ia 
the mystery of moonhght, to kiss the sleeping Endyniion; 
while Cupid and Psyche, entwined in immortal marble, 
breathed on each other's ]ips the early kiss of love. 

The ardent rays of the sun were excluded from these balmy 
halls; soft and tender music from unseen musicians floated 
around, seeming to mingle with the perfumes that were exhaled 
from a thousand flowers. At night, when the moon shed a 
fairy light over the scene, the tender serenade would rise from 
among the bowers of the garden, in which the fine voice of 
Don Ambrosio might often be distinguished ; or the amorous 
flute would be heard along the mountain, breathing in its 
pensive cadences the very soul of a lover's melancholy. 

Various entertainments were also devised to dispel her lone- 
liness, and to charm away the idea of confinement. Groups of 
Andalusian dancers performed, in the splendid saloons, the 
various picturesque dances of their country; or represented 
little amorous ballets, which turned upon some pleasing scene 
of pastoral coquetiy and courtship. Sometimes there were 
bands of singers, who, to the romantic guitar, warbled forth 
ditties full of passion and tenderness. 

Thus all about her enticed to pleasure and voluptuousnesss ; 
but the hea-rt of Inez turned with distaste from this idle 
mockery. The tears would rush into her eyes, as her thoughts 
reverted from this scene of profligate splendour, to the humble 
but virtuous home from whence she had been betrayed ; or if 
the witching power of music ever soothed her into a tender 
reverie, it was to dwell with fondness on the image of Antonio. 
But if Don Ambrosio, deceived by this transient calm, should 
attempt at such time to whisper his passion, she would start as 
from a dream, and recoil from him with involuntary shudder- 
ing. 

She had passed one long day of more than ordinary sadness^ 
and in the evening a band of these hired performers were 
exerting all the animating powers of song and dance to amuse 
her. But while the lofty saloon resounded with their war- 
bhngs, and the fight sound of feet upon its marble pavement 
kept time to the cadence of the song, poor Inez, with her face 
buried in the silken couch on which she reclined, was only ren- 
dered more wretched by the sound of gayety. 

At length her attention was caught \ij the voice of one of the 
singers, that brought with it some indefinite recollections. 
She raised her head, and cast an ansioiis look at the perform- 



TllK I^TVDK^T OF SALAMANCA. H7 

ers, who, as usual, were at the lower end of the saloon. One 
of them advanced a little before the others. It was a female, 
dressed in a fanciful, pastoral garb, suited to the character she 
was sustaining ; but her coimtenance was not to be mistaken. 
It was the same ballad-singer that had twice crossed her path, 
and given her mysterious intimations of the lurking miscliief 
that surrounded her. When the rest of the performancej? 
were concluded, she seized a tambourine, and, tossing it aloft, 
danced alone to the melody of her own voice. In the course 
of her dancing, she approached to where Inez reclined : and as 
she struck the tambourine, contrived dexterously to throw a 
folded paper on the couch. Inez seized it with avidity, and 
concealed it in her bosom. The singing and dancing were at 
an end ; the motley crew retired ; and Inez, left alone, hastened 
with anxiety to imfold the paper thus mysteriously conveyed. 
It was written in an agitated, and almost illegible handwriting: 
"Be on your guard! you are surrounded by treachery. 
Tinist not to the forbearance of Don Ambrosi'O; you ai'C 
marked out for his prey. An humble victim to his perfidy 
gives you this warning ; she is encompassed by too many dan- 
gers to be more explicit. — Your father is in the dungeons of 
the inquisition !" 

The brain of Inez reeled, as she read this dresidful scroU. 
She was less filled with alarm at her own danger, than horror 
at her father's situation. The moment Don Ambrosio appeared, 
she rushed and threw herself at his feet, imploring him to 
save her father. Don Ambrosio stared with astonishment ; but 
immediately regaining his self-possession, endeavoured to 
soothe her by his blandishments, and by assurances that her 
father was in safety. She was not to be pacified; her fears 
were too much aroused to be trifled with. She declared her 
knowledge of her father's being a prisoner of the inquisition, 
and reiterated her frantic supplications that he would save 
him. 

Don Ambrosio paused for a moment in perplexity, but was 
too adroit to be easily confounded. "That your father is a 
prisoner," replied he, "I have long known. I have concealed 
it from you, to save you from fruitless anxiety. You now 
know the real reason of the restraint I have put upon your 
Hbert-y: I have been protecting instead of detaining you. 
Every exertion has been made in your father's favour ; but I 
regret to say, the proofs of the offences of which he stands 
charged liave been too strong to be controverted. Still/" added 



148 BEACEBRIDGE HALL. 

he, "I have it in my power to save him; I have influence, I 
have means at my beck ; it may involve me, it is true, in diffi- 
culties, perhaps in disgrace ; but what would I not do, in the 
hope of being revfarded by your favour? Speak, beautiful 
Inez," said he, his eyes kindling with sudden eagerness; "it is 
with you to say the word that seals your father's fate. One 
kind word — say but you will be mine, and you will behold me 
at your feet, your father at liberty and in affluence, and we 
shall all be happy !" 

Inez drew back from him with scorn and disbelief. "My 
father," exclaimed she, "is too innocent and blameless to be 
convicted of crune ; this is some base, some cruel artifice !" 
Don Ambrosio repeated his asseverations, and with them also 
his dishonourable proposals; but his eagerness overshot its 
mark ; her indignation and her increduJity were alike awakened 
by his base suggestions; and he retired from her presence, 
checked and awed by the sudden pride and dignity of her 
demeanour. . 

The unfortunate Inez now became a prey to the most har- 
rowing anxieties. Don Ambrosio saw that the mask had fallen 
from his face, and that the nature of his machinations was 
revealed. He had gone too far to retrace his steps, and assume 
the affectation of tenderness and respect ; indeed, he was mor- 
tified and incensed at her insensibility to his attractions, and 
now only sought to subdue her through her fears. He daily 
represented to her the dangers that threatened her father, and 
that it was in liis power alone to avert them. Inez was still 
incredulous. She was too ignorant of the nature of the inqui- 
sition, to know that even innocence was not always a protection 
from its cruelties ; and she confided too surely in the virtue of 
her father, to believe that any accusation could prevail against 
him. 

At length Don Ambrosio, to give an effectual blow to her 
confidence, brought her the proclamation of the approaching 
auto da fe, in which the prisoners were enumerated. She 
glanced her eye over it, and beheld her father's name, con- 
demned to the stake for sorcery ! 

For a moment she stood transfixed with horror. Don 
Ambrosio seized upon the transient calm. "Think, now, 
beautiful Inez," said he, with a tone of affected tenderness, 
"his life is still in your hands; one word from you, one kind 
word, and I can yet save him. " 

"Monster! wretch 1" cried she, coming to herself, and 



THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 149 

recoiling from him with insuperable abhorrence: " 'Tis you 
that are the cause of this — 'tis you that are his murderer I" 
Tiien, wringing her hands, she broke forth into exclamations of 
the most frantic agony. 

The perfidious Ambrosio saw the torture of her soul, and 
anticipated from it a triumph. He saw that she was in no 
mood, during her present paroxysm, to listen to his words ; but 
ho trusted that the horrors of lonely rumination would break 
down her spirit, and subdue her to his will. In this, however, 
ho was disappointed. Many were the vicissitudes of mind 
cf the wretcned Inez; at one time, she would embrace his 
knees, with piercing supphcations ; at another, she would 
shrink with nervous horror at iiis very approach; but any 
intimation of his passion only excited the same emotion of 
loathing and detestation. 

At length the fatal day drew i.igh. "To-morrow," said 
Don Ambrosio, as he left her one evj3ning, "to-morrow is 
the auto da fe. To-morrow you ^vill.hear the sound of the bell 
that tolls your father to liis death. You will ahnost see the 
smoke that rises from the funeral pile. I leave you to yourself. 
It is yet in my power to save him. Think whether you can 
stand to-morrow's horrors without shi'inking ! Think whether 
you can endure the after-reflection, that you were the cause of 
his death, and that merely through a perversity in refusing 
proffered hapimiess." 

What a night was it to Inez! — her heart already harassed 
and almost broken, by repeated and i)rotracted anxieties ; her 
strength wasted and enfeebled. On eveiy side, horrors 
av/aited her; her father's death, her own dishonour — there 
seemed no escape from misery or perdition. "Is there no 
relief from man— no pity in heaven?" exclaimed she. "What 
— what have we done, that we should be thus wretched?" 

As the da^.vn approached, the fever of her mind arose to 
agony ; a thousand times did she try the doors and A\'indovv's of 
her apartment, in the desperate hope of escaping. Alas ! with 
all the splendour of her prison, it was too faithfidly secured for 
her weak hands to work deliverance. Like a poor bird, that 
beats its wings against its gilded cage, until it sinks pantmg in 
despair, so she threw herself on the floor in hopeless anguish. 
Her blood grew hot in her veins, her tongue was parched, 
her temples throbbed with violence, she gasped rather than 
breathed ; it seemed as if hej- brain was on fire. "Blessed Vir- 
gin 1" exclaimed cho, clasping her hands and turning up her 



150 BRACEBRIDOE HALL. 

strained eyes, *4ook down with pity, and support melntl 
dreadful hour !" 

Just as the day began to dawn, she heard a key turn softly 
in the door of her apartment. She dreaded lest it should be 
Don Ambrosio ; and the very thought of him gave her a sick- 
ening pang. It was a female clad in a rustic dress, with her face 
concealed by her mantilla. She stepped silently into the room, 
looked cautiously round, and then, uncovering her face, re- 
vealed the well-known features of the ballad-singer. Inez ut- 
tered an exclamation of surprise, almost of joy. The unknown 
started back, pressed her finger on her lips enjoining silence, 
and beckoned her to f oUow. She hastily wrapped herself in , 
her veil, and obeyed. They passed with quick, but noiseless 
steps through an antechamber, across a spacious hall, and along; 
a corridor; all was silent; the household was yet locked ini 
sleep. They came to a door, to which the unknown apphed 
a key. Inez's heart misgave her; she knew not but some new 
treachery was menacing her ; she laid her cold hand on the 
stranger's arm: "Whither are you leading me?" said she. 
"To liberty," replied the other, hi a whisper. 

"Do you know the passages about this mansion?" 

" But too well!" replied the girl, with a melancholy shake of 
the head. There was an expression of sad veracity tu her 
countenance, that was not to be distrusted. The door opened 
on a small terrace, which was overlooked by several windows 
of the mansion. 

"We must move across this quickly," said the girl, "or we 
may be observed." 

They ghdcd over it, as if scarce touching the ground. A 
flight of steps led down into the garden ; a wicket at the bot- 
tom was readily unbolted : they passed mth breathless velocity 
along one of the alleys, still in sight or the mansion, in which, 
however, no person appeared to be stirring. At length they 
came to a low private door in the wall, partly hidden by a fig- 
tree. It was secured by rusty bolts, that refused to yield to 
their feeble efforts. 

" Holy Virgin !" exclaimed the stranger, "what is to be done? 
one moment more, and we may be discovered." 

She seized a stone that lay near *by : a few blows, and the 
bolt flew back ; the door grated harshly as they opened it, and 
the next moment they found themselves in a narrow road. 

" Now," said the stranger, " for .Granada as quickly as possi- 



THE STUDEJ^T OF SALAMAJSX'A. 151 

3le! The nearer we approach it, the safer we shall be; for the 
i-oad will be more frequented." 

The imminent risk they ran of being pursued and taken, 
^ve supernatural strength to their limbs; they flew, rather 
han ran. The day had dawned ; the crunson streaks on the 
3dge of the horizon gave tokens of the approaching sunrise ; 
ilready the hght clouds that floated in the western sky were 
iinged with gold and purple; though the broad plain of the 
Vega, which now began to open upon their view, was covered 
vith the dark haze of morning. As yet they only passed a few 
;traggling peasants on the road, who coidd have yielded them 
10 assistance in case of their being overtaken. They continued 
io hurry forward, and had gained a considerable distance, 
?vhen the strength of Inez, which had only been sustained by 
;he fever of her mind, began to yield to fatigue : she slackened 
ler pace, and faltered. , 

' ' Alas 1" said she, ' ' my limbs fail me ! I can go no farther !" 

' ' Beai* up, bear up, " replied her companion, cheeringly ; ' * a lit- 
le farther, and we shaU be safe : look ! yonder is Granada, just 
showing itself in the valley below us. A httle farther, and we 
5ha11 come to the main road, and then we shall flnd plenty of 
passengers to protect us." 

Inez, encouraged, made fresh efforts to get forward, but her 
veary limbs were imequal to the eagerness of her mind ; hei' 
nouth and throat Avere parched by agony and terror: she 
^sped for breath, and leaned for support against a rock. " It 
s all in vain !" exclaimed she ; " I feel as though I should faint." 

" Lean on me," said the other ; "let us get into the shelter of 
fon thicket, that wiU conceal us from the view; I hear the 
?ound of water, w^hich will refresh you." 

With much difficulty they reached the thicket, which over- 
aung a small mountain-stream, just where its sparkling waters 
leaped over the rock and fell into a natural basin. Here Inez 
^nk upon the gi'ound, exhausted. Her companion brought 
water in the palms of her .hands, and bathed her palhd temples. 
riie coohng drops revived her ; she was enabled to get to the 
aaargin of the stream, and drink of its crystal current ; then, 
reclining her head on tlie bosom of her deliverer, she was first 
jnabled to murmur forth her heartfelt gratitude. 

''Alas I" said the other, "I deserve no thanks; I deserv^c not 
fche good opinion you express. In me you behold a victim of 
Don Ambrosio's arts. In early years he seduced me from the 
bottage of my parents: look! at the foot of yonder bhio inoun- 



1S2 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 

tain, in the distance, lies my native village: but it is no longei 
a home for me. From thence he lured me, when I was too 
young for reflection; he educated me, taught me various ac- 
complishments, made me sensible to love, to splendour, to re- 
finement; then, having grown weary of me, he neglected m.e, 
and cast me upon the world. Happily the accomplishments he 
taught me have kept me from utter want; and the love with 
which he inspired me has kept me from farther degradation. 
Yes! I confess my weakness; all his perfidy and wrongs can- 
not efface him from my heart. I have been brought up to love \ 
him ; I have no other idol : I know him to be base, yet I cannot 
help adoring him. I am content to mingle among the hirehng 
throng that administer to his amusements, that I may still 
hover about him, and Imger in those halls where I once reigned 
mistress. What merit, then, have I in assisting your escape? 
I scarce know whether I am acting from sympathy and a de- 
sn^e to rescue another victim from his power; or jealousy, and 
an eagerness to remove too powerful a rival !" 

WMle she was yet speaking, the sun rose in all its splendour; 
first lighting up the mountain smnmits, then stealing down 
height by height, until its rays gUded the domes and towers of 
Granada, which they could partiaUy see from between the 
trees, below them. Just then the heavy tones of a bell came 
souncUng from a distance, echoing, in sullen clang, along the • 
mountain. Inez turned pale at the sound. She knew it to be ' 
the great bell of the cathedral, rung at sunrise on the day of 
the auto da f e, to give note of funeral preparation. Every stroke 
beat upon her heart, and inflicted an absolute, corporeal pang. 
She started up wildly. "Let us begone!" cried she; "there 
is not a moment for delay !" 

"Stop!" exclauned the other; "yonder are horsemen com- 
ing over the brow of that distant height; if I mistake not, Don 
Ambrosio is at then* head.—Alas ! 'tis he ! we are lost. Hold !" 
continued she; "give me your scarf and veil; wrap yourself in 
this mantilla. I will fly up yon footpath that leads to the 
heights. I will let the veil flutter as I ascend; perhaps they 
may mistake me for you, and they must dismount to foflow 
me. Do you hasten forward : you will soon reach the main 
road. You have jewels on your fingers: bribe the first mul( 
teer you meet, to assist you on your way." 

All this was said with hurried and breathless rapidity. The 
exchange of garments was made in an instant. The girl dartec 
up the mountain-path, her whit^ veil fluttering among the darl 



THE STUDENT OF SxiLAMANCA. jfiS 

shrubbery, while Inez, inspired with new strength, or rather 
new terror, flew to the road, and trusted to Providence to guide 
her tottering steps to Granada. 

All Granada was in agitation on the morning of this dismal 
day. The heavy bell of the cathedral continued to utter its 
clanging tones, that pervaded every part of the city, summon- 
ing all persons to the tremenvlous spectacle that was about to 
be exhibited. The streets through which the procession was to 
pass were crowded with the populace. The windows, the roofs, 
every place that could admit i\ face or a foothold, were alive 
with spectators. In the great square, a spacious scaffolding, 
like an amphitheatre, was erected, where the sentences of the 
prisoners were to be read, and the sermon of faith to be 
preached ; and close by were the stakes prepared, where the 
condemned were to be burnt to death. Seats were arranged 
for the great, the gay, the beautiful ; for such is the horrible 
curiosity of human nature, that this cruel sacrifice was attended 
with more eagerness than a theatre, or even a bull-feast. 

As the day advanced, the scaffolds and balconies were filled 
with expecting multitudes; the sun shone brightly upon fair 
faces and gaUant dresses; one would have thought it eome 
scene of elegant festivity, instead of an exhibition of human 
agony and death. But what a different spectacle and ceremony 
was this, from those which Granada exhibited in the days of 
her Moorish splendour! ''Her galas, her tournaments, her 
sports of the ring, her fetes of St. John, her music, her Zam- 
bras, and admirable tilts of canes ! Her serenades, her concerts, 
her songs in Generaliffe ! The costly liveries of the Abencer- 
rages, their exquisite inventions, the skiU and valour of the 
Alabaces, the superb dresses of the Zegries, Mazas, and Gome- 
les !" * — All these were at an end. The days of chivalry were 
over. Instead of the prancing cavalcade, with neighing steed 
and Hvely trumpet ; with burnished lance, and helm, and buck- 
ler ; with rich confusion of plume, and scarf, and banner, where 
purple, and scarlet, and green, and orange, and every gay 
colour, were mingled with cloth of gold and fair embroidery ; 
instead of this, crept on the gloomy pageant of superstition, in 
cowl and sackcloth ; with cross and coffin, and frightful sym- 
bols of human suffering. In place of the frank, hardy knight, 
open and brave, with his lady's favour in his casque, and 
amorous motto on his shield, looking, by gallant deeds, to win 

* Rodd'^ Civil Wars of Granada. 



154 BRACEBlilDGE HALL. 

the smile of beauty, came the shaven, unmanly monk, witl 
downcast eyes, and head and heart bleached in the cold cloister^ 
secretly exulting in this bigot triumph. 

The sound of the bells gave notice that the dismal procession 
was advancing. It passed slowly through the principal streets 
of the city, bearing in advance the awful banner of the Holy 
Office. The prisoners walked singly, attended by confessors, 
and guarded by familiars of the inquisition. They were clad 
in different garments, according to the nature of their punish- 
ments; those who were to suffer death wore the hideous 
Samarra, painted with flames and demons. The procession 
was swelled by choirs of boys, different religious orders and 
public dignitaries, and above all, by the fathers of the faith, 
moving "with slow pace, and profound gravity, truly tri- 
umphing as becomes the principal generals of that great vic- 
tory."* 

As the sacred banner of the inquisition advanced, the count- 
less throng sunk on their knees before it; they bowed their 
faces to the very earth as it passed, and then slowly rose again, 
Mke a great undulating billow. A murmur of tongues prevailed 
as the prisoners approached, and eager eyes were strained, and 
fingers pointed, to distinguish the different orders of penitents, 
whose habits denoted the degree of punishment they were to 
undergo. But as those drew near whose frightful garb marked 
them as destmed to the flames, the noise of the ra^bble subsided ; 
they seemed almost to hold in their breath; filled with that 
strange and dismal interest with which we contemplate a human 
being on the verge of suffering and death. 

It is an awful thing — a voiceless, noiseless multitude! The 
hushed and gazing stillness of the surrounding thousands, 
heaped on walls, and gates, and roofs, and hanging, as it were, 
in clusters, heightened the effect of the pageant that moved 
drearily on. The low murmuring of the priests could now bo 
heard in prayer and exhortation, with the faint responses of 
the prisoners, and now and then the voices of the choir at a 
distance, chanting the litanies of the saints. 

The faces of the prisoners were ghastly and disconsolate. 
Even those who had been pardoned, and wore the Sanbenito, 
or penitential garment, bore traces of the horrors they had 
undergone. Some were feel^le and tottering, from long con- 
finement; some crippled and distorted by various tortures; 



■ Gonsalvius, p. 135. 



I TUK STUljli:N2' OF SALAMANCA. 155 

( every countenance was a dismal page, on which might be read 
I the secrets of their prison-house. But in the looks of those con- 
!i demned to death, there was something fierce and eager. They 
j seemed men harrowed up by the past, and desperate as to the 
future. They were anticipating, with spirits fevered by despair, 
and fixed and clenched determination, the vehement struggle 
with agony and death which they were shortly to undergo. 
Some cast now and then a wild and anguished look about them, 
upon the shining day; the "sun-bright palaces," the gay, the 
beautiful world, which they were soon to quit for ever; or a 
glance of sudden indignation at the thronging thousands, happy 
in Mberty and life, who seemed, in contemplating their fright- 
ful situation, to exult in their own comparative security. 

One among the condemned, however, was an exception to 
these remarks. It was an aged man, somewhat bowed down, 
with a serene, though dejected countenance, and a beaming, 
melancholy eye. It was the alchymist. The populace looked 
upon him with a degree of compassion, which they were not 
prone to feel towards criminals condemned by the inquisition ; 
but when they were told that he was convicted of the crime of 
magic, they drew back with awe and abhorrence. 

The procession had reached the grand square. The first part 
had already mounted the scaffolding, and the condemned were 
approaching. The press of the populace became excessive, and 
was repelled, as it were, in billows by the guards. Just as the 
condemned were entering the square, a shrieking was heard 
among the crowd. A female, pale, frantic, dishevelled, was 
seen strugghng through the midtitude. "My father! my 
father!" was all the cry she uttered, but it thrilled through 
^very heart. The crowd instinctively drew back, and made 
way for her as she advanced. 

The poor alchymist had made his peace with Heaven, and, 
by a hard stiniggle, had closed his heart upon the world, when 
the voice of Ins child called hmi once more back to worldly 
thought and agony. He turned towards the well-known voice ; 
his knees smote together; he endeavoured to stretch fortk his 
pinioned arms, and felt himself clasped in the embraces of his 
child. The emotions of both were too agonizing for utterance. 
Convulsive sobs and broken exclamations, and embraces more 
of anguish than tenderness, were all that passed between them. 
The procession was interrupted for a moment. The astonished 
monks and famihars were filled with involuntary respect, at 
the aj^ony of natural affection. Ejaculations of pity broke 



156 BRACEBRIDOE HALL. 

from the crowd, touched by the filial piety, the extraordinary 

and hopeless anguish, of so young and beautiful a being 

Every attempt to soothe her, and prevaH on her to* retire ' 
was unheeded; at length they endeavoured to separate her 
from her father by force. The movement roused her from her 
temporary abandonment. With a sudden paroxysm of fury 
she snatched a sword from one of the famHiars. Her late pala 
countenance was flushed with rage, and fire iiashed from her 
once soft and languishing eyes. The guards shrunk back with 
awe There was something in this filial frenzy, this feminme 
tenderness wroLrght up to desperation, that touched even their 
hardened hearts. They endeavoured to pacify her, but m vain 
Her eye was eager and quick, as the she-wolf's guarding her 
young. With one arm she pressed her father to her bosom 
with the other she menaced every one that approached. 

The patience of the guards was soon exhausted. They had 
held back m awe, but not m fear. With aU her desperation 
the weapon was soon wrested from her feeble hand, and she 
was borne shrieking and struggling among the crowd The 
rabble murmured compassion; but such was the dread inspked 
by the inquisition, that no one attempted to interfere 

The procession again resmned its march. Inez was ineffect- 
ually struggling to release herself from the hands of the fami- 
liars that detained her, when suddenly she saw Don Ambrosio 
before her. ' ' Wretched girl !" exclaimed he with fury ' ' why 
have you fled from your friends ? Dehver her," said he .o the 
tamihars, ' to my domestics ; she is under my protection. " 

His creatures advanced to seize her. "Oh, no' oh no!" 
cried she, with new terrors, and chnging to the famihars, "I; 
have fled from no friends. He is not my protector ! He is the 
murderer of my father !" 

The famihars were perplexed; the crowd pressed on, with 
eager curiosity. ' ' Stand off !" ciled the fiery Ambrosio, dash^ 
nig the throng from around him. Then turning to the famihars, 
wi-h sudden moderation, " My friends, " said he, '' dehver this! 
poor gu>l to me. Her distress has turned her brain; she has 
escaped from her friends and protectors this morning; but a 
little quiet and kind treatment will restore her to tranquilhty. " 
^ ''I am not mad! I am not mad!" cried she, vehemently 
On, save me !— save me from these men ! I have no protector 
on earth but my father, and him they are murdering!" ^■ 

The famihars shook their heads; her wildness corroborated^ 
the assertions of Bon Ambrosio, and his apparent rank com- 



THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. ■' 157 

manded respect and belief. They relinquished their charge to 
him, and ho was consigning the struggling Inez to liis creatures. 

"Let go your hold, villain I"' cried a voice from among the 
crowd—and Antonio was seen eagerly tearing his way through 
the press of people. 

' ' Seize him ! seize liim 1" cried Don Ambrosio to the familiars, 
I" 'tis an accomplice of the sorcerer's." 

"Liar!" retorted Antonio, as he thrust the mob to the right 
and left, and forced himself to the spot. 

The sword of Don Ambrosio flashed in an instant from the 
scabbard; the student was armed, and equally alert. There 
was a fierce clash of weapons : the crowd made way for them 
as they fought, and closed again, so as to hide them from the 
view of Inez. All was tumult and confusion for a moment; 
when there was a kind of shout from the spectators, and the 
mob again opening, she beheld, as she thought, Ajitonio welter- 
ing in his blood. 

This new shock was too great for her already overstrained 
intellect. A giddiness seized upon her ; every thing seemed to 
whirl before her eyes; she gasped some incoherent words, and 
sunk senseless upon the ground. 

Days — weeks elapsed, before Inez returned to consciousness. 
At length she opened her eyes, as if out of a troubled sleep. 
She was lying upon a magnificent bed, in a chamber richly 
furnished with pier-glasses, and massive tables inlaid with 
eDver, of exquisite workmanship. The walls were covered 
with tapestry; the cornices richly gilded; through the door, 
which stood open, she perceived a superb saloon, with statues 
and crystal lustres, and a magnificent suite of apartments 
beyond. The casements of the room were open to admit the 
Soft breath of summer, which stole in, laden with perfumes 
from a neighbouring garden ; from whence, also, the refreshing 
sound of fountains and the sweet notes of birds came m mingled 
fmusic to her ear. 

Female attendants were moving, with noiseless step, about 
the chamber; but she feared to address them. She doubted 
whether this was not all delusion, or whether she was not still 
in the palace of Don Ambrosio, and that her escape, and aU its 
circumstances, had not been but a feverish dream. She closed 
her eyes again, endeavouring to recall the pa^st, and to sepa- 
rate the real from the imaginary. The last scenes of con- 
sciousness, however, rushed too forcibly, with all their horrors, 
to her mind to be doubted, and she turned shuddering from 



158 e BRACEBRIDOE HALL, 

the recollection, to gaze once more on the quiet and serei 
magnificence around her. As she again opened her eyes, thf 
rested on an object that at once dispelled every alarm. At tl 
head of her bed sat a venerable form, watching over her wit^ 
a look of fond anxiety — it was her father ! 

I wiU not attempt to describe the scene that ensued ; nor the 
moments of rapture which more than repaid all the sufferings 
that her affectionate heart had undergone. As soon as their 
feelings had become more calm, the alchymist stepped out of 
the room to introduce a stranger, to whom he was indebted for 
his Ufe and liberty. He returned, leading in Antonio, no 
longer in his poor scholar's garb, but in the rich dress of a 
nobleman. 

The feehngs of Inez were almost overpowered by these sud- 
den reverses, and it was some time before she was sufficiently 
composed to comprehend the explanation of this seeming 
romance. 

It appeared that the lover, who had sought her affections in 
the lowly guise of a student, was only son and heir of a power- 
ful grandee of Valentia. He had been placed at the university 
of Salamanca; but a Uvely curiosity, and an eagerness for 
adventure, had induced him to abandon the university, with- 
out his father's consent, and to visit various parts of Spain. 
His rambhng inclination satisfied, he had remained incognito 
for a tune at Granada, until, by farther study and self -regula- 
tion, he could prepare himself to return home with credit, and 
atone for his transgressions against paternal authority. 

How hard he had studied, does not remain on record. All 
that we know is his romantic adventure of the tower. It was 
at first a mere youthful caprice, excited by a glimpse of a 
beautiful face. In becoming a disciple of the alchymist, he 
probably thought of nothing more than pursuing a hght love 
affair. Farther acquaintance, however, had completely fixed 
his affections; and he had determined to conduct Inez and her 
father to Valentia, and to trust to her merits to secure his 
father's consent to their union. 

In the meantime, he had been tiaced to his concealment. 
His father had received intelligence of his being entangled in 
the snares of a mysterious adventurer and his daughter, and 
likely to become the dupe of the fascinations of the latter. 
Trusty emissaries had been despatched to seize upon him by 
main force, and convey him without delay to the paternal 
home. 



THE STUDENT OF SAIAMAMJ A. 159 

What eloquence he had used with his father, to convince him 
of the iiuiocence, the honour, and the high descent of the 
alchyniist, and of the exalted worth of his daughter, does not 
appear. All that we know is, that the father, though a very 
passionate, was a very reasonable man, as appears by his con- 
senting that his son should return to Granada, and conduct 
Inez as his affianced bride to Valentia. 

Away, then, Don Antonio hurried back, full of joyous antici- 
pations. He still forbore to throw off his disguise, fondly pic- 
turing to himself what would be the surprise of Inez, when, 
having won her heart and hand as a poor wandering scholar, 
he should raise her and her father at once to opulence and 
splendour. 

On his arrival he had been shocked at finding the tower 
i deserted by its inhabitants. In vain he sought for intelligence 
I concerning them; a mystery hung over their disappearance 
i which he could not penetrate, until he was thunderstruck, on 
accidentally reading a list of the prisoners at the impending 
auto da f e, to find tlie name of his venerable master among the 
condemned. 

It was the very morning of the execution. The procession 
was ah'eady on its way to the grand square. Not a moment 
was to be lost. The grand inquisitor was a relation of Don 
Antonio, though they had never mefc. His first impulse was to 
make himself known; to exert all his family influence, the 
weight of his name, and the power of his eloquence, in vindica- 
tion of the alchyraist. But the grand inquisitor was already 
proceeding, in all his pomp, to the place where the fatal cere- 
mony was to be performed. How was he to be approached ? 
Antonio threw himself into the crowd, in a fever of anxiety, 
and was forcing his way to the scene of horror, where he 
arrived just in time to rescue Inez, as has been mentioned. 

It was Don Ambrosio that fell in their contest. Being desper- 
ately wounded, and thinking his end approaching, he had con- 
fessed to an attending father of the inquisition, that he was the 
sole cause of the alchymist's condemnation, and that the evi- 
dence on which it was grounded was altogether false. The 
testimony of Don Antonio came in corroboration of this 
avowal : and his relationship to the grand inquisitor had, in all 
probability, its proper weight. Thus was the poor alchymist 
snatched, in a manner, from the very flames ; and so great had 
been the sympathy awakened in his case, that for once a popu- 
lace rejoiced at being disappointed of an execution. 



IQQ BRA CEBUIl) GE 11 A LL. 

The residue of the story may readily be imagined, by evei 
one versed in this valuable kind of history. Don Antoni^ 
e&poused the lovely Inez, and took her and her father with him 
to Valentia. As she had been a loving and dutiful daughter, 
so she proved a true and tender wife. It was not long before 
Don Antonio succeeded to his father's titles and estates, and 
he and his fair spouse were renowned for bemg the handsom- 
est and happiest couple in all Yalentia, 

As to Don Anibrosio, he partially recovered to theenjojnuent 
of a broken constitution and a blasted name, and hid his 
remorse and disgrace in a convent; while the poor victim of 
Ms arts, who had assisted Inez in her escape, unable to con- 
quer the early passion that he had awakened in her bosom, 
though convinced of the baseness of the object, retired from 
the world, and became an humble sister in a nunnery. 

The worthy alchymist took up his abode with his children. 
A pavilion, in the garden of their palace, was assigned to him 
as a laboratory, where he resumed his researches with reno- 
vated ardour, after the grand secret. He was now and then 
assisted by his son-in-law ; but the latter slackened grievously 
in his zeal and diligence, after marriage. Still he would listen 
with profound gravity and attention to the old man's rhapso- 
dies, and his quotations from Paracelsus, Sandivogius, and 
Pietro D'Abano, which daily grew longer and longer. In this 
way the good alchymist hved on quietly and comfortably, to 
what is called a good old age, that is to say, an age that is 
good for nothing ; and unfortunately for mankind, was hurried 
out of hfe in his ninetieth year, just as he was on the point of 
discovering the Philosopher's Stone. 



Such was the story of the captain's friend, with which we 
whiled away the morning. The captain was, every now and' 
then, interrupted by questions and remarks, which I have not 
mentioned, lest I should break the continuity of the tale. He 
was a httle disturbed, also, once or twice, by the general, who 
fell asleep, and breathed rather hard, to the great horror and 
annoyance of Lady Lillycraft. In a long and tender love 
scene, also, which was particularly to her ladyship's taste, the 
unlucky general, having his head a little sunk upon his breast, 
kept making a sound at regular intervals, very much like the 
word pish, long drawn out. At length he made an odd abrupt 
guttural sound, that suddenly awoke him ; he hemmed, looked 
about with a slight degxee of consternation, and then began to 



THE STUJ)K^'T OF SALAAfAyCA. IGl 

play with her ladyship's work-bag, which, however, she rather 
-'pettishly withdrew. The steady sound of the captain's voice 
was still too potent a soporific for the poor general ; he kept 
gleaming up and sinking in the socket, until the cessation of 
the tale agam roused hhn, when he started awake, put his 
foot down upon Lady Lillycraft's cur, the sleeping Beauty, 
which yelped and seized him by the leg, and, in a moment, 
the whole library resounded with yelpings and exclamations. 
Never did man more completely mar his fortunes while he was 
asleep. Silence being at length restored, the company expressed 
their thanks to the captain, and gave various opinions of the 
story. The parson's mind, I found, .had been continually run- 
ning upon the leaden manuscripts, mentioned in the beginning, 
as dug up at Granada, and he put several eager questions to 
the captain on the subject. The general could not well make 
out the di'ift of the story, but thought it a httle confused. "I 
am giad, however," said he, "that they burnt the old chap 
of the tower; I have no doubt he was a notorious impostor." 



[end of vol. one.] 



BRACEBRIDGE HALL; 

on, 

THE HUMOURISTS 

A MEDLEY. 
. By GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 



VOLUME SECOND. 



Under this cloud I walk. Gentlemen; pardon my rude assault. I am a traveller, 
who, having surveyed most of the terrestrial angles of this globe, am hither 
arrived, to peruse this little npot.— Christmas Ordinary. 

ENGLISH COUNTRY GENTLEMEN. 

His certain life, that never can deceive him. 

Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content; 
The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive him 

With coolest shade, till noontide's heat be spent. 
His life is neither tost in boisterous seas 

Or the vexatious world ; or lost in slothful ease. 
Pleased and full blest he lives, when he his God can please. 

— FHINEAS FLETCHEa. 

I TAKE great pleasure in accompanying the Squire in his per- 
ambulations about his estate, i'U which he is often attended by 
a kind of cabinet council. His prime minister, the steward, 
is a very worthy and honest old man, that assiunes a right of 
way ; that is to say, a right to have his own way, from having 
hved time out of mind on the place. He loves the estate even 
better than he does the Squire ; and thwarts the latter sadly in 
many of his projects of improvement, being a little prone to 
disapprove of every plan that does not originate with himself. 

In the course oi one oi these perambulations, I have known 
the Squire to point out some important alteration which he 



164 BRACEBRIBGE HALL. 

was contemplating, in the disposition or cultivation of tli« 
grounds ; this, of course, would be opposed by tho steward, anc 
a long argument would ensue, over a stile, or on a rising piece 
of ground, until the Squire, who has a high opinion of the 
other's abihty and integrity, would be fain to give up tho 
point. This concession, I observed, would immediately mollify 
the old man ; and, after walking over a field or two in silence, 
with his hands behind his back, chewing the cud of reflection, 
he would suddenly turn to the Squire, and observe, that "he 
had been turning the matter over in his mind, and, upon the 
whole, he believed he would take his honour's advice." 

Christy, the huntsman, is another of the Squire's occasional 
attendants, to whom he continually refers in all matters of 
local history, as to a chronicle of the estate, having, in a man- 
ner, been acquainted with many of tho trees, from the very 
tune that they were acorns. Old Nimrod, as has been shown, 
is rather pragmatical in those points of knowledge on which 
he values himself ; but the Squire rarely contradicts hun, and 
is, in fact, one of the most indulgent potentates that ever was 
henpecked by his ministry. 

He often laughs about it himself, and evidently yields to 
these old men more from the bent of his own humour than from 
any want of proper authority. He likes this honest indepen- 
dence of old age, and is well aware that these trusty followers 
love and honour him in thek hearts. He is perfectly at ease 
about his own dignity, and the respect of those around him ; 
nothing* disgusts him sooner than any appearance of fawning 
^r sycophancy. 

I I'eally have seen no display of royal state, that could com- 
pare with one of the Squire's progresses about liis paternal fields 
and through his hereditary woodlands, with several of these 
faithful adherents about him, and follov^ed by a body-guard of 
dogs. He encourages a frankness and manliness of deport- 
ment among his dependants, and is the personal friend of his 
tenants; inquiring into their concerns, and assisting them in 
times of difficulty and hardship. This has rendered him one of 
the most popular, and of course one of the happiest, of land- 
lords. 

Indeed, I do not know a more enviable condition of life, 
than that of an English gentleman, of sound judgment and 
good feelings, who passes the greater part of his time on an 
hereditary estate in the country. From the excellence of tho 
roads, and the rapidity and exactness of the public convey- 



ENGLISH COUNTRY GENTLEMEN 165 

ances, he is enabled to command all tlie comforts and conven- 
iences, all the intelligence and novelties of the capital, while 
he is rcmoA'cd from its hurry and distraction. lie has ample 
means of occupation and amusement, within his o^vn domaii;LS ; 
he may diversify liis time, by rural occupations, by rural 
Bports, by study, and by the delights of friendly society col- 
lected witliin his owxi hospitable halls. 

Or, if his views and feelings are of a more extensive and 
hberal nature, he has it greatly in his power to do good, and 
to have that good immediately reflected back upon himself. 
He can render essential services to his country, by assisting in 
the disinterested administration of the laws ; by watching over 
the opinions and principles of the lower orders around him ; by 
diilusing among them those lights v/hich may be important 
to their welfare; by mingling frankly among them, gaimng 
theu' confidence, becoming the immediate auditor of their com- 
plaints, informing himself of their wants, making himself a 
channel thix)ugh which their grievances may be v-^uietiy com- 
municated to the proper sources of mitigation and relief; or 
by becoming, if need be, the mtrepid and incorruptible guar- 
dian of their liberties — the enhghtened champion of their 
rights. 

All this, it appears to me, can be done witliout any sacrifice 
of personal dignity, without any degrading arts of popularity, 
without any truckling to vulgar prejudices or concurrence m 
vulgar clamotir; but by the steady influence of sincere and 
friendly counsel, of fair, upright, and generous deportment. 
Whatever may be said of English mobs and English dema- 
gogues, I have never met with a people more open to reason, 
more considerate in tlieii- tempers, more tractable by argument 
in the roughest times, than the English. Tliey are remarkably 
quick at discerning and appreciating whatever is manly and 
honourable. They are, by nature and habit, methodical and 
orderly; and they feel the value of all that is regular and 
respectable. They may occasionally be deceiv^ed by sophistry, 
and excited into turbulence by public distresses and the mis- 
representations of designing men ; but open their eyes, and they 
will eventually rally round the landmarks of steady truth and 
deliberate good sense. They are fond of estabhshed customs ; 
they are fond of long-established names ; and that love of order 
and quiet which characterizes the nation, gives a vast influence 
to the descendants of the old families, whose forefathers have 
been lords of the soil from time immeinoriai. 



268 BRA CEBRIB GE II A L L. 



J 



It is when the rich and well-educated and highly-privile^ 
classes neglect their duties, when they neglect to study the in- 
terests, and conciliate the affections, and mstruct the opinions, 
and champion the rights of the people, that the latter become 
discontented and turbulent, and fail mto the hands of dema- 
gogues : the demagogue always steps in, where the patriot is 
wanting. There is a common high-handed cant among the 
high-feeding, and, as they fancy themselves, high-minded men, 
about putting down the mob ; but all true physicians know that 
it is better to sweeten the biood than attack the tumour, to 
apply the emoUient rather than the cautery. It is absurd, in a 
country like England, where there is so much freedom, and 
such a jealousy of right, for any man to assmne an aristocrati- 
cal tone, and to talk supercihously of the common people. 
There is no i^nk that makes him independent of the opinions 
and aiiections of his fellow-men ; there is no ranli nor distinc- 
tion that severs him from his fellow-subjects : and if, by any 
gradual neglect or assumption on the one side, and discontent 
and jealousy on the other, the orders of society should reaUy 
separate, let those who stand on the eminence beware that the 
chasm is not mining at their feet. The orders of society, in all 
weh-constituted governments, are mutually bound together, 
and important to each other ; there can be no such thing in a 
free government as a vacuum ; and whenever one is likely to 
take place, by the drawing off of the rich and intelligent from 
the poor, the bad passions of society will rush in to fill up the 
space, and rend the whole asunder. 

Though born and brought up in a republic, and more and 
more confirmed in republican principles by every year's obser- 
vation and experience, yet I am not insensible to the excellence 
that may exist in other forms of government, nor to the fact 
that they may be more suitable to the situation and circum- 
stances of the countries in which they exist : I have endeav- 
oured rather to look at them as they are, and to observe how 
they are calculated to effect the end which they propose. Con- 
sidering, therefore, the mixed nature of the government of this 
country, and its representative form, I have looked v/ith admi- 
ration at the manner in which the wealth and influence and 
intelligence were spread over its whole surface; not as in some 
monarchies, drained from the country, and collected in towns 
and cities. I have considered the great rural establishments of 
the nobility, and the lesser estabhshments of the gentry, as so 
many reservou's of wealth and intelligence distributed about 



EJSGIJSU COU.\TJiY Glil^TLKMEN. 1C7 

the kingdom, apart from the towns, to irrigate, freshen, and 
fertihze the surrounding country. I have looked upon them, 
too, as the august retreat of patriots and statesmen, where, in 
the enjoyment of honourable independence and elegant leisure, 
they might train up their minds to appear in those legislative 
assemblies, whose debates and decisions form the study and 
precedents of other nations, and involve the interests of the 
world. 

I have been both surprised and disappointed, therefore, at 
finding that on this subject I was often indulging in cin Utopian 
dream, rather than a well-founded opinion. I have been 
concerned at finding that these fine estates were too often in- 
volved, and mortgaged, or placed in the hands of creditors, and 
the owners exiled from their paternal lands. There is an 
extravagance, I am told, that runs parallel with wealth; a 
lavish expenditure among the great ; a senseless competition 
among the aspking ; a heedless, joyless dissipation among all 
the upper ranks, that often beggars even these splendid estab- 
hshments, b?*ea.ks down the pride and prmciples of their pos- 
sessors,, and makes too many of them mere ilace-himters, or 
shifting absentees. It is thus that so many are thrown into the 
hands of govermiient ; and a court, wliich ought to be the most 
pure and honourable in Europe, is so often degraded by noble, 
but importunate time-servers. It is thus, too, that go many 
become exiles from their native land, crowding the hotels of 
foreign countries, and expending upon thankless strangers the 
wealth so hardly drained from their laborious peasantry. I 
have looked upon these latter with a mixture of censure and 
concern. Knowing the ahiiost bigoted fondness of an English- 
man for his native homo, I can conceive what must be their 
compunction and regret, when, amidst the sunburnt plains of 
France, they call to mind the green fields of England; the 
hereditary gi'oves which they have abandoned ; and the hospi- 
table roof of their fathers, wliicli they have left desolate, or to 
be inhabited by strangers. But retrenchment is no plea, for 
abandonment of country. They have risen with the prosperity 
of the land; let them abide its fluctuations, and conform to 
its fortunes. It is not for the rich to fly, because the country 
is suffering: let them share, in then' relative proportion, the 
common lot ; they owe it to the land that has elevated them to 
honour and affluence. When the poor have to diminish their 
scanty morsels of bread ; when tliey have to compound \Aih. 
*the cr§tvings of nature, and study v^ith how little they can do, 



IQQ BRACEBRmOE HALL. 

and not be starved ; it is not then for the rich to fly, and di- 
minish still farther the resources of the poor, that they them- 
selves may live in splendour in a cheaper country. Let them 
rather retire to their estates, and there practise retrenchment. 
Let them return to that noble simplicity, that practical good 
sense, that honest pride, which form the foundation of true 
English character, and from them they may again rear the 
edifice ®f fair and honourable prosperity. 

On the rural habits of the English nobility and gentry, on 
the mamier in which they discharge their duties of their patri 
monial possessions, depend greatly the virtue and welfa^re of 
the nation. So long as they pass the greater part of their time 
in the quiet and purity of the country; surrounded by the 
monuments of then- illustrious ancestors ; surrounded by every 
thing that can inspire generous pride, noble emulation, and 
amiable and magnanimous sentiment ; so long they are safe, 
and in them the nation may repose its interests and its honour. 
But the moment that they become the servile throngers of 
court avenues, and give themselves up to the political mtrigues 
and heartless dissipations of the metropolis, that moment they 
lose the real nobility of theh^ natures, and become the mere 
leeches of the country. 

That the great majoritj- of nobihty and gentry in England 
are endowed with high notions of honour and independence, I ' 
thoroughly believe. They have evidenced it lately on very 
imj)ortant questions, and have given an example of adherence 
to principle, in preference to party and power, that must have 
astonished many of the venal and obsequious courts of Europe. 
Such are the glorious effects of freedom, when infused into a 
constitution. But it seems to me, that they are apt to forget 
the positive nature ox their duties, and to fancy that their emi- 
nent privileges are only so many means of self-indulgence. 
They should recollect, that in a constitution like that of Eng- 
land, the titled orders are intended to be as useful as they are 
ornamental, and it is their virtues alone that can render them^ 
both. Their duties are divided between the sovereign and the] 
subjects; surrounding and giving lustre and dignity to theJ 
throne, and at the same time tempering and mitigating its] 
rays, until they are transmitted in mild and genial radiance to] 
the people. Born to leisure and opulence, they owe the exei 
cise of their talents, and the expenditure of their wealth, toi 
their native country. They may be compared to the clouds ; \ 
which, being drawn up by the sun, and elevated in the heavens, 



A BACHELOIVS 001SIFE8810N8. 169 

reflect and magnify his splendour; while they repay the earth, 
from which they derive their sustenance, by returning their 
treasures to its bosom in fertilizing showers. 



A BACHELOE'S CONFESSIONS. 

"I'll live a private, pensive single life." 

—The Collier of Croydon. 

I WAS sitting in my room, a morning or two since, reading, 
when some one tapped at the door, and Master Simon entered. 
He had an luiusually fresh appearance ; he had put on a bright 
green riding-coat, with a bunch of violets m the button-hole, 
and had the ah' of an old bachelor trying to rejuvenate himself. 
He had not, however, his usual briskness and vivacity ; but 
loitered about the room with somewhat of abse^ice of manner, 
humming the old song — " Go, lovely rose, tell her that wastes 
her time and me ;" and then, leaning against the window, and 
looking upon the landscape, he uttered a very audible sigh. 
As I had not been accustomed to see Master Smion m a pensive 
mood, I thought there might be some vexation preying on his 
mind, and I endeavoured to introduce a ciieerful strain of con- 
versation ; but he was not in the vein to follow it up, and pro- 
posed that we should take a v/alk. 

It was a beautiful morning, of that soft venial temperature, 
that seems to thaw all the frost out of one's blood, and to set 
all nature in a ferment. The very fishes felt its mfiuence; the 
cautious trout ventured out of his dark hole to seek his mate ; 
the roach and the dace rose up to the surface of the brook to 
bask in the sunshine, and the amorous frog piped from among 
the rushes. If ever an oyster can really faU in love, as has 
been said or sung, it must be on such a morning. 

The weather certainly had its effect even upon Master Simon, 
for ho seemed obstinately bent upon the pensive mood. Instead 
of stepping briskly along, smacking' his dog-wliip, whistling 
quaint ditties, or telling sporting anecdotes, he leaned on my 
ann, and talked about the approaching nuptials ; from whence 
he made several digressions upon the character of wompvukind, 
touched a little upon the tender passion, and made sundry very 
excellent, though rather trite, observations upon disappoint- 
ments in love. It was evident that he had something on his 



170 BllAGEBIlIBGE II ALL. 

mind which he wished to impart, but felt awkward in ap- 
proaching it. I was curious to see to what this strain would 
lead ; but was determined not to assist him. Indeed, I mis- 
chievously pretended to turn the conversation, and talked of 
his usual topics, dogs, horses, and huntmg ; but he was very 
brief in his replies, and invariably got back, by hook or by 
crook, into the sentimental vein. 

At length we came to a clump of trees that overhung a whis- 
permg brook, with a rustic bench at their feet. The trees 
were grievously scored with letters and devices, which had 
gi^own out of all shape and size by the growth of the bark ; and 
it appeared that this grove had served as a kind of register of 
the family loves from time immemorial. Here Master Simon 
made a pause, pulled up a tuft of flowers, threw them one by 
one into the water, and at length, turning somewhat abruptly 
upon me, asked me if I had ever been in love. I confess the 
question startled me a httle, as I am not over-fond of making 
confessions of my amorous fohies ; and above all, should never 
dream of choosing my friend Master Simon for a confidant. 
He did not wait, hov/ever, for a reply ; the inquiry was merely 
a prelude to a confession on his own part, and after several 
circumlocutions and whimsical preambles, he fairly disbur- 
thened himself of a very tolerable story of his having been 
crossed in love. 

The reader will, very probably, suppose that it related to the 
gay widow who jilted him not long since at Doncaster races ; — 
no such thing. It was about a sentimental passion that he 
once had for a most beautiful young lady, who wrote poetry 
and x)layed on the harp. He used to serenade her ; and, in- 
deed, he described several tender and gaUant scenes, m which 
he was evidently picturing himself in his mind's eye as some 
elegant hero of romance, though, unfortunately for the tale, I 
only saw him as he stood before me, a dapper little old bache- 
lor, with a face like an apple that has dried with the bloom on 
it. 

What were the particulars of this tender tale, I have already 
forgotten; indeed, I listened to it with a heart like a very 
pebble-stone, having hard work to repress a smile while Master 
Simon was putting on the amorous swain, uttering every now 
and then a sigh, and endeavouring to look sentimental and 
melancholy. 

AU that I recollect is that the lady, according to his account, 
was certainly a little touched ; for she used to accept aU the 



A BACmJLOli'S CONFhJSSIONS. 171 

music that he copied for her harp, and all the patterns that he 
drew for her dresses; and he began to flatter liiznself, after a 
long course of delicate attentions, that he was gradually fan- 
ning up a gentle flame in her heart, when she suddenly accept- 
ed the hand of a rich, boisterous, fox-hunting baronet, without 
either music or sentiment, who carried her by storm after a 
fortnight's courtship. 

Master Simon could not help concluding hj some observation 
about ' ' modest merit," and the power of gold over the sex. As 
a remembrance of his passion, he pointed out a heart carved 
on the bark of one of the trees ; but which, in the process of 
time, had grown out into a large excrescence ; and he showed 
me a lock of her hair, which he wore in a true-lover's knot, in 
a large gold brooch. 

I have seldom met with an old bachelor that had not, at some 
time or other, his nonsensical moment, when he woidd become 
tender and sentimental, talk about the concerns of the heart, 
and have some confession of a delicate nature to make. Al- 
most every man has some little trait of romance in his life, 
which he looks back to with fondness, and about which he is 
apt to grow garrulous occasionally. He recollects himself as 
he was at the time, young and gamesome ; and forgets that his 
hearers have no other idea of the hero of the tale, but such as 
he may appear at the time of teUing it ; peradventure, a with- 
ered, whimsical, spindle-shanked old gentleman. With mar- 
ried men, it is true, this is not so frequently the case : their 
amorous romance is apt to decline after marriage ; why, I cannot 
for the life of me imagine ; but with a bachelor, though it may 
slumber, it never dies. It is always liable to break out again 
in transient flashes, and never so much as on a spring morning 
in the country ; or on a winter evening when seated in his soli- 
tary chamber stirring up the fire and talking of matrunony. 

The moment that Master Simon had gone through his con- 
fession, and, to use the common phra.se, "had made a clean 
breast of it," he became quite himself again. He had settled 
the point which had been worrying his mind, and doubtless 
considered himselt established as a man of sentiment in my 
opinion. Before we had linished our morning's stroll, he was 
singing as blithe as a grasshopper, whistling to his dogs, and 
telling droll stories : and I recollect that he was particularly 
facetious that clay at dinner on the subject of matrimony, and 
uttered several excellent jokes, not to be found in Joe Miller, 



172 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 

that made the bride elect bhish and look down; but set all the 
old gentlemen at the table m a roar, and absolutely brought 
teai's into the gonerai's eyes. 



1 



ENGLISH GRAVITY. 

"Merrie England!"— ^ricioif Phrase. 

There is nothing so rare as for a man to ride his hobby with- 
out molestation. I find the Squire has not so undisturbed an 
indulgence in his hmnours as I had imagined; but has been 
repeatedly thwarted of late, and has sulfered a kind of well- 
meaning persecution from a Mr. Faddy, an old gentleman of 
someweicjht, at least of purse, who has recently moved into 
the neighbourhood. He is a worthy and substantial manufac- 
turer, who, having accumulated a large fortune by dint of 
steam-engmes and spinniug- jennies, has retired from business, 
and set up for a country gentleman. He has taken an old 
country-seat, and refitted it ; and painted and plastered it, until 
it looks not unlike his own manufactory. He has been par- 
ticularly careful in mending the walls and hedges, and putting 
up notices of spring-guns and man-traps in every part of his 
premises. Indeed, he shows great jealousy about his territorial 
rights, having stopped up a footpath that led across his fields, 
and given warning, in staring letters, that whoever was found 
trespn^ssing on tliose grounds would be prosecuted with the 
utmost rigour of tlie law. He has brought into the country 
with him all the practical maxims of town, and the bustling 
habits of business ; and is one of those sensible, useful, prosing, 
troublesome, intobrablc old gentlemen, that go about v/earying 
and v/orrying society with excellent plans for public utility. 

He is very much disposed to be on intimate terms with the 
Squire, and calls on liim every now and then, with some pro- 
ject for the good of the neiglibourhood, which happens to run 
diametrically opponite to some one or other of the Squire's 
peculiar notions ; but which is "too sensible a measure" to be 
openly opi^osed. He has annoyed him excessively, by enforc- 
ing the vagrant laws ; persecuting the gipsies, and endeavour- 
ing to suppress country wakes and holiday games ; which he 
considers great nuisances, and roprobates as causes of the dead- 
ly sin of idleness. 



ENGLISH GRAVITY. I73 

There is evidently in all this a little of the ostentation of newly- 
acquired consequence ; the tradesman is p^raduaUy swelling into 
the aristocrat ; and he begins to grow excessively intolerant of 
every thing that is not genteel. He has a great deal to say 
about "the common people;" talks much of his park, his pre- 
serves, and the necessity of enforcing the game-laws more 
strictly; and makes frequent use of the plii'ase, "the gentry 
of the neighbourhood." 

He came to the Hall lately, with a face full of business, that 
he and the Squire, to use his own words, "might lay their 
heads together," to hit upon some mode of putting a stop to the 
frohcking at the village on the approaching May-day. It 
drcTvT, he said, idle people together from all parts of the neigh- 
bourhood, who spent the day fiddling, dancing, and carousing, 
Instead of staying at home to v/ork for their famihes. 

Now, as the Squire, unluckily, is at the bottom of these May- 
day revels, it may be supposed that the suggestions of the 
sagacious Mr. Faddy were not received with the best grace in 
the world. It is true, the old gentleman is too courteous to 
show any temper to a guest in his own house ; but no sooner 
was he gone, than the indignation of the Squire found vent, at 
having his poetical cobAvebs invaded by this buzzing, blue- 
bottle fly of traffic. In his warmth, ho inveighed against the 
whole race of manufacturers, who, I found, were sore dis- 
turbei^ of his comfort. ' ' Sir, " said he, \vith emotion, ' ' it makes 
m.Y heart bleed, to see all our fine streams dammed up, and 
bestrode by cotton-mills ; our valleys smoking with steam-en- 
gines, and the din of the hammer and the loom scaring away 
all our rural delight. What's to become of merry old England, 
when its manor-houses are all turned into manufactories, and 
its sturdy peasantry into pin-makers and stocking- weavers? I 
have looked in vain for merry Sherwood, and all the green- 
wood haunts of Robin Hood; the whole country is covered 
•with manufacturing towns. I have stood on the ruins of Dud- 
ley Castle, and looked round, \vith an aching heart, on what 
were once its feudal domains of verdant and beautiful coun- 
try. Sir, I beheld a mere campus phlegrae; a re.crion of fire; 
reeking with coal-pits, and furnaces, and smelting-houses, 
vomiting forth flames and smoke. The pale and ghastly peo- 
ple, tofling among vile exhalations, looked more like demons 
than human beings; the clanking wheels and engines, seen 
through the murky atmosphere, looked like instruments of 
torture in this pandemonium. What is to become of the coun- 



^74 BRACEBRIDOE HALL. 

try, with these evils rankhng in its v^ry core ? Sir, those manu- 
f actui-ers mil be the ruin of our rural manners ; they will 
destroy the national character; they will not leave materials 
for a single line of poetry !" 

The Squire is apt to wax eloquent on such themes ; and I 
could hardly help smihng a,t this whimsical lamentation, over 
national industry and public improvement. I am told, how- 
ever, that he really grieves at the growing spirit of trade, 
as destroying the charm of- life. He considers every new 
shorthand mode of doing things, as an inroad of snug sordid 
method; and thinks that this will soon become a mere matter- 
of-fact world where life vfill be reduced to a mathematical cal- 
culation of conveniences, and every thing will be done by 
steam. 

He maintains, also, that the nation has dechned in its free 
and joyous spirit, in proportion as it has tm-ned its attention to 
commerce and manufactures; and that, in old times, when 
England was an idler, it was also a merrier little island. In 
support of tliis opinion, he adduces the frequency and splen- 
dour of ancient festivals and merry-makings, and the hearty 
spirit with which they were kept up by all classes of people. 
His memory is stored vvdth the accounts given by Stow, in his 
Survey of London, of the hohday revels at the inns of court, 
the Christmas mummeries, and the masquings and bonfires 
about the streets. London, he says, in those days, resembled 
the continental cities in its picturesque manners and amuse- 
ments. The court used to dance after dinner, on pubhc occa- 
gions. After the coronation dinner of Eichard II. for example, 
the king, the prelates, the nobles, the knights, and the rest of 
the company, danced in Westminster HaU to the music of the 
minstrels. The example of the court was followed by the mid- 
dhng classes, and so down to the lowest, and the whole nation 
was a dancing, jovial nation. He quotes a lively city picture 
of the times, given by Stow, which resembles the hvely scenes 
one may often see in the gay city of Paris ; for he tells us th!it on 
hohdays, after evening prayers, the maidens in London used to 
assemble before the door, in sight of their masters and dames, 
and while one played on a* timbrel, the others danced for gar- 
lands, hanged athwart the street. 

"Where will we meet with such merry groups now-a-days?" 
the Squire will exclaim shaking his head mournfully;— "and 
then as tu the gayety that prevailed in dress throurhout all 
ranks oi society, and made Lhe very stroctrj. so fine and pictiir- 



ENGLISH GRAVITY. 175 

esque: *I have myself,' says Gervaise Markham, 'met an ordi- 
nary tapster in his silk stockings, garters deep fringed with 
gold lace, the rest of his apparel suitable, with cloak lined with 
velvet ! ' Nashe, too, who wrote in 1593, exclaims at the finery 
of the nation : ' England, the player's stage of gorgeous attire, 
the ape of all nations' superfluities, the continual masquer in 
outlandish habiliments.'" 

Such are a few of the authorities quoted by the Squire, by 
way of contrasting what he supposes to have been the former 
vivacity of the nation with its present monotonous character. 
*' John Bull," he will say, ''was then a gay cavaher, with his 
sword by his side and a feather in his cap ; but he is now a plod- 
ding citizen, in snuff-coloured coat and gaiters. " 

By the by, there really appears to have been some change in 
the national character, since the days of which the Squire is so 
fond of talking ; those days when this little island acquired its 
favourite old title of ' ' merry England. " This may be attributed 
in part to the growing hardships of the times, and the necessity 
of turning the whole attention to the means of subsistence ; but 
England's gayest customs prevailed at times when her common 
people enjoyed comparatively few of the comforts aivl conveni- 
ences that they do at present. It may be still more attributed 
to the universal spirit of gain, and the calculating habits that 
commerce has introduced-, but I am inclined to attribute it 
chiefly to the gradual increase of the liberty of the subject, and 
the gi'owing freedom and activity of opinion. 

A free people are apt to be grave and thoughtful. They have 
high and important matters to occupy their minds. They feel 
that it is their right, their interest, and their duty, to mingle in 
pubUc concerns, and to watch over the general welfare. The 
continual exercise of the mind on pohtical topics gives intenser 
habits of thinking, and a more serious and earnest demeanour. 
A nation becomes less gay, but more intellectually active and 
vigorous. It evinces less play of the fancy, but more power of 
the imagination ; less taste and elegance, hut more grandeur of 
mind ; less animated vivacity, but deeper enthusiasm. 

It is when men are shut out of the regions of manly thought, 
by a despotic government ; when every gTave and lofty theme 
is rendered perilous to discussion and almost to reflection ; it is 
then that they turn to the safer occupations of taste and amuse- 
ment; trifles rise to importance, and occupy the craving ac- 
ti^aty of intellect. No being is more void of care and reflection 
than the slave; none dances more ^nvlv, in his intei'vals of 



176 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. I 

labour; but make him free, give bim rights and interests to 
guard, and he becomes thoughtiul and laborious. 

The French are a gayer people than the Enghsh. "Why? 
Partly from temperament, perhaps ; but greatly because they 
have been accustomed to governments which surrounded the 
free exercise of thought with danger, and where he only was 
safe who shut his eyes and ears to public events, and enjoyed 
the passing pleasure of the day. Within late years, they have 
had more opportunity of exercising their minds; and witliin 
late years, the national character has essentially changed. 
Never did the French enjoy such a degree of freedom as they 
do at this moment ; and at this moment the French are com- 
paratively a grave people. 



GIPSIES. 



■^Vliat's that to absolute freedom ; such as the very beggars have; to feast and 
revel .here to-day. and yonder to-morrow; next day where they please; and so oa 
still, the -^vhole country or kingdom over? There's hberty I the birds of the air can 
take no move.— Jovial Crew. 

Since the meeting with the gipsies, which I have related in 
a former paper, I have observed several of them haunting the 
purlieus of the Hall, in spite of a positive interdiction of the 
Squh'e. They are part of a gang that has long kept about tliis 
neighbourhood, to the great annoyance of the farmers, whose 
poultry-yards often suffer from their nocturnal invasions. 
They are, however, in some measure patronized by the Squire, 
who considers the race as belonging to the good old times; 
which, to confess the private truth, seem to have abounded 
v>-ith good-for-nothing characters. 

Tliis roving crew is called "Starlight Tom's Gang," from the 
name of its chieftain, a notorious poacher. I have heard re- 
peatedly of the misdeeds of this ' ' minion of the moon ;" for 
every midnight depredation that takes place in park, or fold, 
or farm-yard, is laid to his charge. Starlight Tom, in fact, 
answers to his name ; he seems to walk in darkness, and, like a 
fox, to be traced in the morning by the mischief he has done. 
He reminds mo of that fearful personage in the nursery rhyme: 

Who goes round the ho)ise at night? 

None but bloody Tom 1 
Who sTH-.f^ All t^e sherp at night? 

None bur ono by one: 



GIPSIES. I 2^^ 

In short, Starlight Tom is the scapegoat of the neigliotM-turhood 
but so cunning and adroit, that there is no detecting him. \^i^ 
Christy and the game-keeper have watched many a night, in 
hopes of entrapping him ; and Christy often patrols the \^Yk 
with his dogs, for the purpose, but all in vain. It is said that 
the Squire winks hard at his misdeeds, having an indulgent 
feehng towards the vagabond, because of his being very expert 
at all kinds of games, a great shot with the cross-bow, and the 
best morris-dancer in the country. 

The Squire also suffei^s the gang to lurk unmolested about 
the skirts of his estate, on condition that they do not come 
about the house. The approaching wedding, however, has 
made a kind of Saturnalia at the Hall, and has caused a sus- 
pension of all sober rule. It has produced a great sensation 
throughout the female part of the household ; not a housemaid 
but dreams of wedding favours, and has a husband running in 
her head. Such a time is a harvest for the gipsies : there is a 
public footpath leading across one part of the park, by which 
they have free ingress, and they are continually hovering 
about the gi'ounds, telling the servant-gu'ls' fortunes, or getting 
smuggled in to the young ladies. 

I believe the Oxonian amuses himself very much by furnish- 
ing them with hints in private, and bewildering all the weak 
brams in the house with their wonderful revelations. The 
general certainly was very much astonished by the communi- 
cations made to him the other evening by the gipsy girl : he 
kept a wary silence towards us on the subject, and affected to 
treat it lightly ; but I have noticed that he has since redoubled 
his attentions to Lady Lillycraft and her dogs. 

I have seen also Phoebe Wilkins the housekeeper's pretty 
and love-sick niece, holding a long conference with one of these 
old sibyls behind a large tree in the avenue, and often looking 
round to see that she was not observed. I make no doubt that 
she was endeavouring to get some fa^vourable augury about the 
result of her love-qu::rrel with young Ready-Money, as oracles 
liave always been more consulted on love affairs than upon 
any thing else. I fear, however, that in this instance the re- 
sponse was not so favourable as usual ; for I perceived poor 
Phoebe returning pensively towards the house, her head hang- 
ing down, her hat in her hand, and the riband traihng along 
the ground. 

At another time, as I turned a comer of a terrace, at the 
bottom of the garden, just by a clump of trees, and a large 



178 BRA CEBllIDGE. HALL, 

stcmQ^tn, I came upon a bevy of tlie young giris of the family, i 
'attended by this same Phoebe Willdns. I was at a loss to 
comprehend the meaning of their blushing and giggling, and- 
their apparent agitation, until I saw the red cloak of a gipsy 
vanishing a.mong the shrubbery. A few moments after, I 
caught sight of Master Simon and the Oxonion steahng along 
one of the walks of the garden, chuckling and laughing at their 
successful waggery ; having evidently put the gipsy up to the 
thing, and instructed her what to say. 

After all, there is something strangely pleasing in these tam-^ 
perings with the future, even where we are convinced of the 
fallacy of the prediction. It is singular how willingly the 
mind will half deceive itself, and with what a degree of awe 
we ^vill Hsten to these babblers about futurity. For my part, 
I cannot feel angry with these poor vagabonds, that seek to 
deceive us into bright hopes and expectations. I have always 
been something of a castle-builder, and have found my liveliest 
pleasures to arise from the illusions which fancy has cast over 
commonplace reahties. As I get on in life, I find it more diffi- 
cult to deceive myself in this dehghtf ul mamier ; and I should 
be thankful to any prophet, however false, that would conjure 
the clouds which hang over futurity into palaces, and all its 
doubtful regions into fairy-land. 

The Squire, who, as I have observed, has a private good--\^dU 
towards gipsies, has suffered considerable annoyance on their 
account. Not that they requite his indulgence with ingrati- 
tude, for they do not depredate very flagrantly on his estate ; 
but because their pilferings and misdeeds occasion loud mur- 
murs in the village. I can readily understand the old gentle- 
man's humour on this point ; I have a great toleration for all 
kinds of vagrant sunshiny existence, and must confess I take a 
pleasure in observing the ways of gipsies. The English, who 
are accustomed to them from childhood, and often suffer from 
their pett;/ depredations, consider them as mere nuisances; 
but I have been very much struck with their peculiarities. I 
like to behold their clear olive complexions, their romantic 
black eyes,, their raven locks, their lithe, slender figures ; and 
hear them in low silver tones dealing forth magnificent prom- 
ises CI honours and estates, of v/orld's wealth, and ladies' love. 

Their mode of life, too, has something in it very fanciful and 
picturesque. They are the free denizens of nature, and main- 
tain a primitive independence, in spite of law and gospel ; of 
county gaols and country magistrates. It is curious to see tlm 



GlP^sih'S. 179 

obstinate adherence to the wild, unsettled habits of saX^e life 
transmitted from generation to generation, and presei-ved in 
the midst of one of the most cultivated, populous, and sys- 
tematic countries in the world. They are totally distinct from 
the busy, thrifty people about them. They seem to be, like 
the Indians of America, either above or below the ordinar;^- 
cares and anxieties of mankind. Heedless of power, of honours, 
of wealth ; and indifferent to the fluctuations of times ; the rise 
or fall of grain, or stock, or empires, they seem to laugh at the 
toiling, fretting world around them, and to live according to 
the philosophy of the old song: 

" Who would ambition shun, 
And loves to lie i' the sun, v 

Seeking the food he eats. 
And pleased with what he gets. 
Come hither, come hither, come hither; 

Here shall he see 

No enemy, 
But winter a,nd rough weather." 

In this way, they wander from county to county ; keeping 
about the purheus of villages, or in plenteous neighbourhoods, 
where there are fat farms and rich country-seats. Their en- 
campments are generally made in some beautiful spot— either 
a green shady nook of a road ; or on the border of a common, 
under a sheltering hedge ; or on the skirts of a fine spreading 
wood. They are always to be found lurking about lairs, and 
races, and rustic gatherings, wherever there is pleasure, and 
throng, and idleness. They are the oracles of milk-maids and 
simple serving-girls ; and sometimes have even the honour of 
perusing the white hands of gentlemen's daughters, when 
rambling about their fathers' grounds. They are the bane of 
good housewives and thrifty farmers, and odious in the eyes 
of country justices; but, like all other vagabond beings, they 
have something to commend them to the fancy. They are 
among the last traces, in these matter-of-fact days, of the 
motley population of former times ; and are whimsically asso- 
ciated in my mind with fairies and ^vitches, Robin Goodfellow, 
Robin Hood, and the other fantastical personages of poetry. 



180 r' BRACEBEIBQE HALL. 



MAT-DAY CUSTOMS. 

Happy the age, and harmless were the dayes, 

(For then true love and amity Avas found,) 
When every village did a May-psjle i aise, 

And Whitsun ales and May-games did abound: 
And all the lusty yonkers in a rout, 
"With merry lasses daunc'd the rod about, 
Then friendship to their banquets bid the guests, 
And poore men far'd the better for their feasts. 

— Pasquil's Palinodia. 

The montli of April has nearly passed away, and we are fast' 
approaching that poetical day, which was considered, in old^ 
times, as the boundary that parted the frontiers of winter and^ 
summer. With all its ca^prices, ho¥/eA^er, I like the month of' 
April. I Mke these laughing and crymg days, when sun and 
shade seem to run in billows over the landscape. I like to see 
the sudden shower coursing over the meadow, and giving aU' 
nature a gTcencr smile; and the bright sunbeams chasing the 
flying cloud, and turning all its drops into diamonds. 

I was enjoying a morning of the kind, in company with the 
Squire, in one of the finest parts of the park. We were skirt- 
ing a beautiful gi'ove, and he was giving me a kind of bio- 
graphical account of several of his favourite forest trees, when' 
he heard the strokes of an axe from the midst of a thick copse. 
The Sguire paused and listened, vv^ith manifest signs of uneasi-^ 
ness. He turned his steps in the direction of the sound. The' 
strokes grew louder and louder as we advanced ; there was 
evidently a vigorous arm wieldmg the axe. The Squire quick- 
ened liis pace, but in vain; a loud crack, and a succeeding' 
crash, told that the mischief had been done, and some child of' 
the forest laid low. When w^e came to the place, we found : 
Master Simon and several others standing about a tall and' 
beautiful]}" straight young tree, which had just been felled. 

The Squire, though a man of most harmonious dispositions, 
was completely put out of tune by this circumstance. He felt 
like a monarch w^itnessing the murder of one of Ms liege sub- 
jects, and demanded, with some asperity, the meaning of the 
outrage. It turned out? to be an aita^ir of Master Simon's, Vv^ho- 
had selected the tree, from its height and straightness, for a; 
May-pole, the old one wliich stood on the village green being im-' 
fit for farther service. If any thing could have soothed the ire 
of my worth;/ host, it would have been the reflection that his- 



MAY-BAT CUSTOMS. 181 

tree had fallen in so good a cause ; and I sa^v that there wa^ t 
great straggle between his fondness for his groves, and his 
devotion to May-day. He could not contemplate the prostrate 
tree, however, without indulging in lamentation, and making 
a kind of funeral eulogy, like Mark Antony over the body of 
Caesar ; and he forbade that any tree slioidd thenceforward be 
cut down on liis estate, without a waiTant from liiniseif ; being 
i determined, he said, to hold the sovereign power of life and 
death in his own hands. 

This mention of the iMay-pole struck my attention, and I in- 
quired whether the old customs connected with it were really 
kept up in this part of the country. The Squire shook his 
head mournfully ; and I found I had touched on one of liis 
tender points, for he grew quite melancholy in bevv-ailing the 
total decline of old j\Iay-day. Though it is regularly celebrated 
'"in the neighbouring village, yet it has been merely resuscitated 
by the worthy Squire, and is kept up in a forced state of exist- 
ence at his expense. He meets with continual discourage- 
ments ; and finds great difficulty in getting the country bump- 
kins to play their parts tolerably. He manages to have every 
year a "Queen of the IMay ;" but as to Robin Hood, Friar Tuck, 
the Dragon, the Hobby-Horse, and all the other motley crew 
that used to enliven the day w^ith their mummerj^, he has not 
ventured to introduce them. 

Still I looked forw^ard with some interest to the promised 
shadow of old May-day, even though it be but a shadow ; and 
I feel more and more pleased with the whimsical yet harmless 
hobby of my host, which is surrounding him vnth agreeable 
associations, and making a little world of poetry about him. 
Brought up, as I have been, in a new country, I may appre- 
ciate too highly the faint vestiges of ancient customs which I 
now and then meet with, and the interest I express in them 
may provoke a smile from those who are negligently suffering 
them to pass away. But -with whatever indifference they may 
be regarded by those "to the niannor born," yet in my mind 
the lingering flavour of them imparts a charm to rustic life, 
wiiich nothing else could readily supply. 

I shall never forget the delight I felt on first seeing a May- 
pole. It was on the banks of the Doe, close by the picturesque 
old bridge that stretches across the river from the quaint little 
city of Chester. I had already been carried back into foi-mer 
days, by the antiquities of that venerable place; the examina- 
tion of which is equal to turning over the pages of a black-let- 



189 ' BllACEBlUDGE HALL. 



1 

! 



ter^^^iume, or gazing on the pictures in Froissart. The May^ 
'pole on the margin of that poetic stream completed the illusioni 
My fancy adorned it with wreaths of flowers, and peopled the 
green bank with aU the dancing revelry of May-day. Th( 
mere sight of this May -pole gave a glow to my feehngs, anc 
spread a charm over the country for the rest of the day ; anc 
as I traversed a part of the fair plain of Cheshire, and th( 
beautiful borders of Wales, and looked from among sweUing 
hills down a long green valley, through which "the Dev^ 
wound its wizard stream," my imagination turned all into 
perfect Arcadia. 

Whether it be owing to such poetical associations early vq( 
stilled into my mind, or whether there is, as it were, a sym 
pathetic revival 9.nd budding forth of the feelings at this se£ 
son, certain it is, that I pJways experience, wherever I may b 
placed, a delightful expansion of the heart at the retm'n 
May. It is said that birds about this time will become restles 
in their cages, as if instinct with the season, conscious of th 
revelry that is going on in the groves, and impatient to break 
from their bondage, and join in the jubilee of the year. In 
like manner I have felt myself excited, even in the midst of 
the metropolis, when the windows, which had been churlishly 
closed all winter, were again thrown open to receive the balmy 
breath of May ; when the sweets of the country were breathed 
into the town, and flowers were cried about the streets. I have 
considered the treasures of flowers thus poured in, as so many 
missives from nature, mviting us forth to enjoy the virgin 
beauty of the year, before its freshness is exhaled by the heats 
of sumiy summer. 

One can readily imagine what a gay scene it must have been 
in jolly old London, when the doors were decorated with 
flowering branches, when every hat was decked with haw- 
thorn, and Eobin Hood, Friar Tuck, Maid Marian, the morris- 
dancers, and all the other fantastic masks and revellers, were 
performing their antics about the May-pole in every part of 
the city. 

I am not a bigoted admirer of old times and old customs, 
merely because of their antiquity: but while I rejoice in the 
dechne of many of the rude usages and coarse amusements of 
former days, I cannot but regret that this innocent and fanci- 
ful festival has fallen into disuse. It seemed appropriate to 
this verdant and pastoral coimtry, and calculated to light up 
the too-]^ervading gra^'ity of the nation, I value every cus- 



VILLAGE WOltTUIKS. J83 

V>ni that tends to infuse poetical feeling into the common peo- 
ple, and to sweeten and soften the rudeness of rustic manners, 
without destroying their simphcity.- Indeed, it is to the dechne 
of this happy simphcity, that the decline of this custom may 
be traced ; and the rural dance on the green, and the homely 
May-day pageant, have gradually disappeared, in proportion as 
the peasantry have become expensive and artificial in their 
pleasures, and too knowing for simple enjoyment. 

Some attempts, the Squire informs me, have been made of 
late years, by men of both taste and learning, to rally back the 
popular feeling to these standards of primitive simphcity ; but 
the time has gone by, the feeling has become chilled by habits 
of gain and traffic, the country apes the manners and amuse- 
ments of the town, and little is heard of May-day at present, 
except from the lamentations of authors, who sigh after it from 
among the brick waUs of the city : 

" For O, for O, the Hobby-Horse is forgot." 



VILLAGE WORTHIES. 

Nay, I tell you, I am so well beloved in our town, that not the worst dog in the 
street will hurt my little finger.— CoZZter of Croydon. 

As the neighbouring village is one of those out-of-the-way, 
but gossiping, Httle places where a small matter makes a great 
stir, it is not to be supposed that the approach of a festival like 
that of May-day can be regarded with indifference, especially 
smce it is made a matter of such moment by the great folks at 
the Hall. Master Simon, who is the faithful factotum of the 
worthy Squire, and jumps with his humour in every thing, is 
frequent just now in his visits to the village, to give directions 
for the impending fete; and as I have taken the liberty occa- 
sionally of accompanying him, I have been enabled to get some 
insig-ht into the characters and internal pohtics of this very 
sagacious little community. 

Master Simon is in fact the Csesar of the viUage. It is true 
the Squire is the protecting power, but his factotum is the 
active aiid busy agent. He intermeddles in all its concerns, is 
acquainti?d with all the inhabitants and their domestic history, 
gives cC'UZAScl to the old folks m their business mattci's, and the 



184 



BRACEBRID<}E BALL. 



young folks in their love affairs, and enjoys the proud sati 
faction of being a great man in a httle world. 

He is the dispenser, too, of the Squire's charity, which 
bounteous; and, to do Master Simon justice, he performs tl 
part of his functions with great alacrity. Indeed, I have beei 
entertained with the mixture of bustle, unportance^ and kinc 
heartedness which he displays. He is of too vivacious a ten 
pei^tment to comfort the afflicted by sitting down, moping an^ 
whining, and blowmg noses in concert; but goes v/hiskini 
about hke a sparrow, chhping consolation into every hole anq 
corner of the village. I have seen an old woman, in a red cloak,' 
hold him for half an hour together with some long phthisical 
tale of distress, which Master Simon hstened to with many a 
bob of the head, smack of his dog-whip, and other symptoms of 
impatience, though he afterwards made a most faithful and 
circumstantial report of the case to the Squire. I have watched 
him, too, during one of his pop visits into the cottage of a 
superannuated villager, who is a pensioner of the Squke, where 
he fidgeted about the room without sitting down, made many 
excellent off-hand reflections with the old invahd, who was 
propped up in his chair, about the shortness of life, the cer- 
tainty of death, and the necessity of preparing for "that awful 
change;" quoted several texts of scripture very incorrectly, but 
much to the edification of the cottager's wife ; and on coming 
out, pinched the daughter's rosy cheek, and wondered what 
was in the young men that such a pretty face did not get a 
husband. 

He has also his cabinet counsellors in the village, with whom 
he is very busy just now, preparing for the May-day ceremonies. 
Among these is the village tailor, a pale-faced f eUow, that plays 
the clarionet in the church choir; and, being a great musical 
genius, has frequent meetings of the band at his house, whei-e 
they "make night hideous" by theu^ concerts. He is, in conse- 
quence, high in favour with Master Simon ; and, through his 
influence, has the making, or rather marring, of all the liveries 
of the Hall ; which generally look as though they had been cut 
out by one of those scientific tailors of the Flying Island of 
Laputa, who took measure of their customers with a quadrant. 
The tailor, in fact, might rise to be one of the moneyed men of 
the village, were he not rather too prone to gossip, and keep 
holidays, and give concerts, and blow ail his substance, real 
and personal, through his clarionet ; which literally keeps him 
poor, both in body and estate. He ban for the pi-esent thrown 



TEE SCIIOOLMASTEH. 185 

by all his regular work, and suffered the breeches of the village 
to go unmade and unmended, while he is occupied ii\ making 
garlands of pai-ty-coloured rags, m imitation of flowers, for the 
decoration of the May -pole. 

Another of Master Simon's counsellors is the apothecary, a 
short and rather fat man, with a paii' of prominent eyes, that 
diverge like those of a lobster. He is the village wise man ; 
very sententious, and full of profound remarks on shallow 
subjects. Master Simon often quotes his sayings, and mentions 
him as rather an extraordinary man ; and even consults him 
occasionally, in desperate cases of the dogs and horses. Indeed, 
he seems to have been overwhehned by the apothecary's philo- 
sophy, wliich is exactly one observation deep, consisting of 
indisputable maxims, such as may be gathered from the mottoes 
of tobacco-boxes. I had a specimen of his philosophy, in my 
very first conversation with him ; in the course of which he 
observed, with great solemnity and emphasis, that ' ' man is a 
compound of wisdom and ioMj ;" upon which Master Simon, 
who had hold of my arm, pressed very hard upon it, and 
whispered in my ear " That's a devilish shrewd remark 1" 



THE SCHOOLMASTER. 

There -will be no tnosse stick to the stone of Sisiphus, no grasse hang on the heeles 
of Mercury, no butter cleixve on the bread of a traveller. For as the eagle at every 
flight loselh a feather, which inaketh her bauld in her age. .so the traveller ij) every 
country loseth some fleece, Avhich maketh him a beggar in his yontli. by buying 
that for a pound which he cannot sell again for a penny— repentance.— Lilly's 
Eiiphues. 

Among the wortliies of the village that enjoy the pecuhar 
confidence of Master Simon, is one who has struck my fancy 
so much that I have thought him worthy of a separate notice. 
It is Slingsby, the schoolmaster, a thin, elderly man, rather 
threadbare and slovenly, somev/hr.t indolent in manner, and 
with an easy, good-humoured look, not often met with in his 
craft. I have been interested in his favour by a few anecdotes 
which I have picked up concerning him. 

He is a native of the viUage, and was a contemporary and 
playmate of Ready-Money Jack m the days of their boyhood. 
Indeed, they carried on a kind of league of mutual good 
offices. SHngsby was ra.thcr puny, and withal somewhat of a 



IQQ BliACEDRIDGhJ HALL. 

coward, but very apt at Ms learning; Jack, on the contrary,^ 
was a bully-boy out of doors, but a sad laggard at his books.] 
Slingsby helped Jack, therefore, to all Ms lessons ; Jack foughl 
all SHngsby's battles; and they were inseparable friends. Tl ' 
mutual kindness continued even after they left the school,^ 
notwithstanding the dissimilarity of their characters. Jacl 
took to ploughing and reaping, and prepared himself to till hi 
paternal acres ; while the other loitered negligently on ia the 
path of learning, until he penetrated even into the confines oi 
Latin and mathematics. 

In an unlucky hour, however, he took to reading voyages 
and travels, and was smitten with a desire to see the world. 
TMs desire increased upon Mm as he grew up ; so, early on( 
bright, sunny mornuig, he put all his effects in a knapsack, 
slung it on his back, took staff in hand, and called in Ms way 
take leave of Ms early schoolmate. Jack was just going out 
with the plough : the friends shook hands over the farm-hous( 
gate; Jack drove his team a-field, and Slingsby wMstled,] 
" Over the hills and far away," and saUied forth gayly to ''seel 
his fortune." 

Years and years passed by, and young Tom Shngsby wj 
forgotten; when, one mellow Sunday afternoon in autumn, 
thin man, somewhat advanced in life, with a coat out at elbows 
a pair of old nankeen gaiters, and a few tilings tied iu a hand-" 
kerchief and slung on the end of a stick, was seen loitering 
through the village. He appeared to regard several houses 
attentively, to peer into the windows that v/ere open, to eye 
the villagers wistfully as they returned from church, and then 
to pass some time in the church-yard reading the tombstones. 

At length he found his way to the farm-house of Eeady- 
Money Jack, but paused ere he attempted the wicket ; contem- 
plating the picture of substantial independence before him. In 
the porch of the house sat Eeady-Money Jack, in his Sunday 
dress ; vv^ith his hat upon Ms head, Ms pipe in his mouth, and 
his tankard before liim, the monarch of aU he surveyed. 
Beside him lay his fat house-dog. The varied sounds of poul- 
tiy were heard from the well-stocked farm-yard; the bees 
hummed from their hives in the garden ; the cattled lowed in 
the rich meadow ; wMle the crammed barns and ample stacks 
bore proof of an abundant harvest. 

The stranger opened the gate and advanced dubiously toward 
the house. The mastiff growled at the sight of the suspicious- 
looking intruder ; but was immedia/ceiy sUenced by his master, 



THE SCIWOLMASTEU. 337 

who, taking his pipe from his mouth, av/aited with inquiring 
aspect the address of this equivocal personage. The stranger 
eyed old Jack for a moment, so portly in liis dimensions, and 
decked, out in gorgeous apparel; then cast a glance upon liis 
own thread-bare and starveling condition, and the scanty 
bundle which he held in his hand; then giving his shrimk 
waistcoat a twitch to make it meet its receding waistband, 
and casting anothtn* look, half sad, half humorous, at the sturdy 
yeoman, " I suppose," said he, " Mr. Tibbets, you have forgot 
old times and old playmates." 

The latter gazed at him with scrutinizing look, but acknowl- 
edged that he had no recollection of him. 

"Like enough, like enough," said the stranger, "every body 
seems to have forgotten poor Slingsby !" 

" Why, no, sure! it can't be Tom Slingsby?" 

"Yes, but it is, though!" replied the stranger, shaking his 
head. 

Eeady-Money Jack was on his feet in a twinkling, thrust out 
his hand, gave his ancient crony the gripe of a giant, and 
slapping the other hand on a bench, "Sit down there," cried he, 
"Tom Slingsby!" 

A long conversation ensued about old times, while Slingsby 
was regaled with the best cheer that the f aiTn-house afforded ; 
for he was hungry as well as wayworn, and had the keen 
appetite of a poor pedestrian. The early playmates then 
talked over their subsequent lives and adventures. Jack 
had but little to i-elate, and was never good at a long stoiy. 
A prosperous life, passed at home, has little incident for narra- 
tive ; it is only poor devils, that are tossed about the Vv^orld, 
that arc the true heroes of story. Jack had stuck by the 
paternal farm, followed the same plough that his forefathers 
had driven, and had waxed richer and richer as he gi-ew older. 
As to Tom Slingsby, he was an exemplification of the old 
proverb, "a rolling stone gathers no moss." He had sought 
his fortune about the world, without ever finding it, being a 
thing oftener found at home than abroad. He had been in all 
kinds of situations, and had learned a dozen different modes 
of making a living ; but had found his way back to his native 
village rather poorer than when he left it, his knapsack having 
dwindled down to a scanty bundle. 

As luck would have it, the Squire was passing by the farm- 
house that very evening, and called there, as is often his 
custom. He found the two schoolmates still gossiping in the 



283 BRAGEBRIBGE HALL. 

porch, and according to the good old Scottish song, "taking 
cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne." The Squire w£ 
struck by the contrast in appearance and fortunes of thes| 
early playmates. Eeady-Money Jack, seated in lordly state! 
surrounded by the good things of this life, ^vith golden guinea| 
hanging' to his very watch-chain, and the i30or pilgriii 
Siingsby, thin as a weasel, Avith ail his worldly effects, hii 
bundle, hat, and walking- staff, lying on the ground beside 
him. 

The good Squire's heart warmed towards the luckless cosm( 
polite, for he is a httle prone to like such half -vagrant charac 
ters. He cast about in his mind how he should contrive once 
more to anchor Siingsby in his native village. Honest Jack 
had already offered him a present shelter under his roof, 
in spite of the hints, and winks, and half remonstrances 
of the shrewd Dame Tibbets; but how to provide for his 
permanent maintenance^ was the question. Luckily the Squire 
bethought hhnself that the village school was without a 
teacher. A little further conversation convmced bim that 
Siingsby vv^as as fit for that as for any thing else, and in a day 
or two he was seen swaying the rod of empire in the very 
school-house where he had often been horsed in the days of his 
boyhood. 

Here he has remained for several years, and, being honoured 
by the countenance of the Squire, a.nd the fast friendship of 
Mr. Tibbets, he has grown into much importance and conside- 
ration in the village. I am told, however, that he still shows, 
now and then, a degree of restlessness, and a disposition to 
rove abroad again, and see a little more of the world ; an inch- 
nation which seems particularly to haunt him about spring- 
time. There is nothing so difficult to conquer as the vagrant 
humour, when once it has been fully indulged. 

Smce I have heard these anecdotes of poor Siingsby, I have 
more than once mused upon the picture presented by him and 
his schoolmate, Eeady-Money Jack, on their coming together 
ap:a-in after so long a separation. It is difficult to determine 
between lots in life, where each one is attended with its peculiar 
discontents. He who never leaves bis home repines at his 
monotonous existence, pmd envies the traveller, whose hfe is a 
constant tissue of wonder and adventure; while he who is 
tossed about the world, looks back with many a sigh to the 
safe and quiet shore which he has abandoned. I cannot help 
thinking, however, that the man that stays at home, and cul- 



THE SCHOOL. 189 

tivates the comforts and pleasures daily springing up around 
'him, stands the best chance for happiness. There is nothing so 
fascinating to a yomig mmd as the idea of travelling ; and there 
IS very witchcraft m the old phrase found in every nursery 
tale, of "going to seek one's fortune." A continual change of 
place, and change of object, promises a continual succession of 
adventure and gratilication of curiosity. But there is a limit 
to all our enjoyments, and every desire bears its death in its very 
gratification. Curiosity languishes under repeated stimulants, 
novelties cease to excite surprise, until at length we cannot 
wonder even at a miracle. 

He who has sallied forth into the world, like poor Slingsby, 
full of sunny anticipations, finds too soon how different the dis- 
tant scene becomes when visited. The smooth place roughens 
as he approaches ; the wild place becomes tame and barren ; the 
fairy tints that beguiled him on, still fly to the distant hill, or 
gather upon the land he has left behind; and every part of the 
landscape seems greener than the spot he stands on. 



THE SCHOOL. 



But to come down from great men and higher matters to my little children and 
poor scliool -house again; I will, God willing, go forward oi'derly, as I pu'-posed. to 
instruct children and young men both for learning and manners.— Roger Ascham. 

Having given the reader a slight sketch of the village school- 
master, he may be' curious to learn something concerning his 
school. As the Squire takes much interest in the education of 
the neighbouring children, he put into the hands of the teacher, 
on firet instaUing him in office, a copy of Eoger Ascham's 
Schoolmaster, and advised him, moreover, to con over that 
portion of old Peacham which treats of the duty of masters, 
and which condemns the favourite method of making boys wise 
by flagellation. 

He exhorted Shngsby not to break down or depress the free 
spirit of the bo> s, by harshness and slavish fear, but to lea.d 
them freely and joyously on in the path of knowledge, making 
it pleasant and desirable in their eyes. He wished to see the 
youth trained up in the manners and habitudes of the peasantry 
of the good old times, and thus to lay a foundation for the 
accomplishment of his favorite object, the rcivival of old English 



190 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 

customs and character. He recommended that all the ancieni 

holidays should be observed, and that the sports of the boys, ir 
theu' hours of play, should be regulated according to the 
standard authorities laid down in Strutt, a copy of whos€ 
invaluable work, decorated with plates, was deposited in the 
school-house. Above all, he exhorted the pedagogue to abstain 
from the use of birch, an instrument of instruction which the 
good Squire regards with abhorrence, as fit only for the coercion 
of brute natures that cannot be reasoned with. 

Mr. Slingsby has followed the Squire's instructions, to the 
best of liis disposition and abihties. He never flogs the boys, 
because he is too easy, good-humoured a creature to inflict pain 
on a worm. He is bountiful in holidays, because he loves holi- 
days himself, and has a sympathy with the urchins' impatience of 
confinement, from having divers times experienced its irksome- 
ness during the time that he was seeing the world. As to 
sports and pastimes, the boys are faithfully exercised in all that 
are on record, quoits, races, prison-bars, tipcat, trap-ball, bandy- 
ball, wrestling, leaping, and what not. The only misfortune 
is, that having banished the birch, honest SMngsby has not 
studied Eoger Ascham suificiently to find out a substitute ; or 
rather, he has not the management in his nature to apply one ; 
his school, therefore, though one of the happiest, is one of the 
most unruly in the country ; and never was a pedagogue more 
liked, or less heeded Idj his disciples, than Shngsby, 

He has lately taken a coadjutor worthy of himself, being 
another stray sheep that has returned to the village fold.' 
This is no other than the son of the musical tailor, who had 
bestowed some cost upon his education, hoping to see him one 
day arrive at the digiiity of an exciseman, or at least of a parish 
clerk. The lad grew up, however, as idle and musical as his 
father; and, being captivated by the drum and fife of a recruit- 
ing party, he followed them off to the army. He returned 
not long since, out of money, and out at the elbows, the 
prodigal son of the village. He remained for some time loung- 
ing about the place in half-tattered soldier's dress, with a 
foraging-cap on one side of his head, jerking stones across the 
brook, or loitering about the tavern-door, a burthen to his 
father, and regarded with great coldness by all warm house- 
holders. 

Something, however, drew honest Slingsby towards the 
youth. It might be the kindness he bore to his father, who 
one of the schoolmaster's great cronies ; it might be that secrel 



THE ISCllOOL. 191 

sympathy which draws men of vagrant propensities towards 
each other; for there is something truly magnetic in the 
vagabond feeling ; or it might be, that he remembered the tiino 
' when he himself had come back, hke this youngster, a wreck, 
to his native place. At any rate, whatever the motive, Slingsby 
drew towards the youth. They had many conversations in the 
village tap-room about foreign parts and the various scenes and 
places they had witnessed during their wayfaring about the 
world. The more Slingsby talked with him, the more he found' 
him to his taste ; and finding hun almost as learned as himself, 
he forthwith engaged Mm as an assistant, or usher, in the 
school. Under such admirable tuition, the school, as may be 
supposed, flourishes apace ; and if the scholars do not become 
versed in all the holiday accomplishments of the good old times, 
to the Squire's heart's content, it will not be the fault of their 
teachers. The prodigal son has become almost as popular 
among the boys as the pedagogue himself. His instructions arc 
not hmited to school hours ; and having inherited the musical 
taste and talents of his father, he has bitten the whole school 
with the mania. He is a great hand at beating a drum, which 
is often heard nunbling from the rear of the school-house. Ho 
is teaching half the boys of the village, also, to play the fife, 
and the pandean pipes ; and they weary the whole neighbour- 
hood with their vague pipings, as they sit perched on stiles, or 
loitering about the bam-doors in the evenings. Among the 
other exercises of the school, also, he has introduced the ancient 
art of archery, one of the Squire's favourite themes, with such 
success, that the whipsters roam in truant bands about the 
neighbourhood, practising vn\h their bows and arrows upon the 
birds of the air, and the beasts of the field ; and not unf requently 
maldng a foray into the Squire's domains, to the great indigncs 
tion of the gamekeepers. In a word, so completely are the 
ancient Enghsh customs and habits cultivated at this school, 
that I should not be surprised if the Squire should Hve to see 
one of his poetic visions realized, and a brood reared up, 
worthy successors to Robin Hood and his merry gang of out- 
laws. 



192 BliACEBRIBQE HALL, 



A VILLAGE POLITICIAN. ' 

I am a "Ogue if I do not think I was designed for the hehn of state; I am so full of 
nimble stratagems, that I should have ordered affairs, and cariled it agaiust tht 
stream of a faction, with as much ease as a skipper would laver against t!ie wind 

— The Goblins. 

In onG of my visits to the village with Master Simon, lie pro- 
posed that we should stop at the imi, which he wished to show 
me, as a specimen of a real country inn, the head-quarters of 
village gossips. I had remarked it before, in my perambu- 
Jations about the place. It has a deep, old-fashioned porch, 
loading into a kirge hall, which serves for tap-room and travel- 
Icrs'-room ; having a wide fire-place, with high-backed settles on 
each side, where the vvase men of the village gossip over their 
ale, and hold their sessions during the long winter evenings. 
The landlord is an easy, indolent follow, shaped a little like one 
of his own beer-barrels, and is apt to stand gossiping at his 
door, with his wig on one side, and his hands in his pockets, 
whilst his wife and daughter attend to customers. His wife, 
however, is fully competent to manage the establishment ; and, 
indeed, from long habitude, rules over all the frequenters of 
the tap-room as completely as if they were her dependants in- 
stead of her patrons. Not a veteran ale-bibber but pays homage 
to her, having, no doubt, been often in her arrears. I have 
already hinted that she is on very good terms with Ready- 
Money Jack. He was a sweetheart of hers m eaily life, and 
has always countenanced the tavern on her account. Indeed, 
he is quite the "cock of the walk" at the tap-room. 

As we approached the inn, we heard some one talking with 
great volubility, and distinguished the ominous words, "taxes," 
"poors rates," and "agricultural distress." It proved to be a 
thin, loquacious fellow, who had penned the landlord up in one 
corner of the porch, with his hands in his pockets as usual, 
listening with an air of the most vacant acquiescence. 

The sight seemed to have a curious effect on Master Sunon, as 
he squeezed my arm, and, altering his course, sheered mde of 
the porch, as though he had not had any idea of entering. This 
evident evasion induced me to notice the orator more particu- 
larly. He was meagre, but active in his make, with a long, 
pale, bilious face ; a black beard, so ill-shaven as to bloody his 
shirt-collar, a feverish eye, and a hat sharpened up at the sides, 
into a most pragmatical shape. He had a newspaper in his 



A VILLAGE- I'OLJIJCJAiY. 193 

hand, and seemed to be commenting on its contents, to the 
, thorough conviction of mine host. 

At sight of ^Master Simon, the landlord Avas evidently a httle 
flurried, and began to rub his hands, edge away from his cor- 
ner, and make several profound publican bows; wliile the 
ora/oor took :.o other notice of my companion than to talk 
rather louder than before, and witli, as I thought, something of 
an air of defiance. Master Simon, however, as I have before 
said, sheered off from the porch, and passed on, pressing my 
arm within liis, and Vv^hispering, as Ave got by, in a tone of awe 
and horror, " That's a radical! he reads CobbettI" 

I endeavom*ed to get a more particidar account of him from 
my companion, but he seemed unwilling even to talk about 
bun, answering only in general terms, that he was ' ' a cursed 
busy fellow, that had a confounded trick of talking, and was 
Si]}t to bother one about the national debt, and such nonsense;" 
from which I suspected that Master Simon had been rendered 
wary of him by some accidental encounter on the field of argu- 
ment ; for these radicals are continually roving about in quest 
of wordy wai'fare, and never so happy as when they can tilt a 
gentleman logician out of his saddle. 

On subsequent inquiiy, my suspicions have been confirmed. 
I find the radical has but recently found his way into the village, 
where he threatens to commit fearful devastations Avith his 
doctrines. He has already made two or three complete con- 
verts, or new hghts ; has shaken the faith of several others ; 
and has grievously puzzled the brains of many of the oldest 
villagers, Avho had never thought about pohtics, or scarce any 
thing else, during their aa^ hole lives. 

He is lean and meagre from the constant restlessness of mind 
and body ; worrying about with ncAvspapers and pamphlets in 
his pockets, which he is ready to pull out on all occasions. He 
has shocked several of the staunchest A^illagers, by talking 
liglitly of the Squire and liis family ; and hinting that it Avould 
be better the park should be cut mto small farms and kitchen- 
gardens, or feed good mutton instead of worthless deer. 

He is a great thorn m ilie side of the Squire, who is sadly 
afraid that he Avill introduce politics into the village, and turn 
it into an unhappy, thinking coinmiinity. He is a still greater 
grievance to Master Simon, Avho has liitherto been able to sv/ay 
the political opinions of the place, Avithout much cost of learn- 
ing or logic ; but has been much puzzled of late to weed out the 
doubts and heresies ah-eady sown by this champion of i-eform. 



294 BRACEBUWGE HALL, 

Indeed, the latter has taken complete command at tlietap-roon 
of the tavern, not so much because lie has convinced, as bc^ 
cause he has out-talked all the old-established oracles. The 
apothecary, with all his philosophy, was as nought before him. 
He has convinced and converted the landlord at least a dozen 
times ; who, however, is liable to be convinced and converted 
the other way, by the next person with whom he talks. It is 
true the radical has a violent antagonist in the landlady, who is 
vehemently loyal, and thoroughly devoted to the king, Master 
Simon, and the Squire. She now and then comes out upon the 
reformer with all the fierceness of a cat-o'-mountain, and does 
not spare her own soft-hea.ded husband, for listening to wliat 
she terms such "low-hved pohtics." What makes the good 
woman the more violent, is the perfect coolness with which the, 
radical listens to her attacks, drawing his face up into a pro- 
voking supercilious smile; and when she has talked herself out 
of breath, quietly asking her for a taste of her home-brewed. 

The only person that is in any way a match for this redoubt- 
able pohtician, is Eeady-Money Jack Tibbets, who maintains 
his stand in the tap-room, in defiance of the radical and all liis 
works. Jack is one of the mxost loyal men in the country, 
without being able to reason about the matter. He has that 
admirable quahty for a tough arguer, also, that he never knows 
when he is beat. He has half-a-dozen old maxims which he ad- 
vances on all occasions, and though his antagonist may overturn 
them never so often, yet he always brings them anew to the 
field. He is like the robber in Ariosto, who, though his head 
might be cut off half-a-hundred times, yet whipped it on his 
shoulders again in a twinkling, ^nd returned as sound a man 
as ever to the charge. 

Whatever does not square with Jack's simple and obvious 
creed, he sets down for "French politics;" for, notwithstand- 
ing the peace, he cannot be persuaded that the French are not 
still laying plots to ruin the nation, and to get hold of the Bank 
of England. The radical attempted to overwhelm hun, one 
day, by a long passage from a newspaper; but Jack neither 
reads nor believes in newspapers. In reply, he gave him one 
of the stanzas which he has by heart from his favourite, and 
indeed only author, old Tusser, and v^hich he calls his Golden 
Rules: 

Leave princes' affairs undescanted on. 
And tend to such doings as stand thee upon; 
Fear God, and offend not the kinp: nor his laws, 
And keep thyself out of the magistrate's claws. 



THE ROOKERY. 195 

When Tibbets had pronounced this with great emphasis, he 
pulled out a well-filled leathern purse, took out a handful of 
gold and silver, paid his score at the bar with great punctual- 
ity, returned his money, piece by piece, into his purse, his 
purse into his pocket, which he buttoned up ; and then, giving 
his cudgel a stout thump upon the floor, and bidding the radi- 
cal " good-moming, sir!" with the tone of a man who con- 
ceives he has completely done for his antagonist, he walked 
with lion-like gravity out of the house. Two or three of Jack's 
admirers who were present, and had been afraid to take the 
field themselves, looked upon this as a perfect triumph, and 
winked at each other when the radical's back was turned. 
♦'Ay, ay!" said mine host, as soon as the radical was out of 
hearing, "let old Jack alone; I'U warrant he'll give hun his 
own I" 



THE ROOKERY. 



But cawmg rooks, aud kites that swim sublime 

In still repeated circles, screaming loud; 

The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl, 

That hails the rising moon, have charms for me.— CowPEB. 

In a grove of tall oaks and beeches, that crowns a terrace- 
walk, just on the skirts of the garden, is an ancient rookery, 
which is one of the most unportant provinces in the Squire's 
rural domains. The old gentleman sets great store by his 
rooks, and will not suffer one of them to be killed: in con- 
sequence of which, they have mcreased amazingly; the tree- 
tops are loaded with their nests ; they have encroached upon 
the great avenue, and have even established, in times long 
past, a colony among the elms and pines of the church-yard, 
which, like other distant colonies, has already thrown off 
allegiance to the mother country. 

The rooks are looked up by the Squire as a very ancient and 
honourable line of gentry, higlily aristocratical in their notions, 
fond of place, and attached to church and state ; as their build- 
ing so loftily, keeping about churches and cathedrals, and in 
the venerable groves of old castles and manor-houses, suffi- 
ciently manifests. The good opinion thus expressed by the 
Squire put me upon observing more narrowly these very re- 
spectable birds, for I confess, to my shame, I had been apt to 



196 BRACiiBliWGE 



™! 



confound them with their cousins-german the crows, to whom, 
at the first glance, thev bear so great a family resemblance. 
Nothing, it seems, conld be more unjast or injurious than such 
a mistake. The rooks and crows are, among the leathered 
tribes^ what the Spaniards and Portuguese are among nations 
the least loving, in consequence of theu' neighbourhood and 
similarity. The rooks are old established housekeepers, high- 
minded gentlefolk, that have had their hereditary abodes time 
out of mind ; but as to the poor crows, ih.Qf are a kind of vaga- 
bond, predatory, gipsy race, roving about the country without 
any settled home; "their hands are against every body, and 
every body's against them ;'' and they are gibbeted in every 
corn-field. Master Simon assures me that a female rook, that 
should so far forget herself as to consort with a crow, would 
inevitably be disinherited, and indeed would be totally dis- 
carded by all her genteel acquamtance. 

The Squire is yq-tj watcliful over the interests and concerns 
of liis sable neighbours. As to Master Simon, he even pretends 
to know many of them by sight, and to have given names to 
them ; he pomts out several, which he says are old heads of 
families, and compares them to worthy old citizens, before- 
hand in the world, that wear cocked hats, and silver buckles 
in their shoes. Notwithstanding the protecting benevolence of 
the Squire, and their being residents in his emi^ire, they seem 
to acknowledge no allegiance, and to held no intercourse or 
intimacy. Their airy tenements are built almost out of the 
reach of gun-shot; and, notwithstanding their vicinity to the 
Hall, they maintain a most reserved and distrustful shyness of 
mankind. 

There is one season of the year, however, which brings all 
birds in a manner to a level, and tames the pride of the loftiest 
high-flyer — which is the season of building their nests. This 
takes place early in the spring, when the forest trees first begin 
to show their buds ; the long, withy ends of the branches to 
turn green; when the wild strawberry, and other herbage of 
the sheltered woodlands, put forth their tender and tinted 
leaves ; and the daisy and the primrose peep from under the 
hedges. At this time there is a general bustle among the feath- 
ered tribes ; an incessant fluttering about, and a cheerful chirp- 
ing; indicative, like the germination of the vegetable world, 
of the reviving life and fecundity of the year. 

It is then that the rooks forget their usual stateliness and 
theii' shy and lofty habits. Instead of keeping up in the high 



THE ROOKERY. 197 

regions of the air, s winging on the breszy tree-tops, and look- 
ing down with sovereign contempt upon the humble crawlers 
upon earth, they are fain to throw off for a time the dignity of 
the gentleman, to come down to the ground, and put on the 
pains-taking and industrious character of a labourer. They 
now lose their natural shyness, become fearless and familiar, 
and may be seen plying about in all directions, with an air of 
great assiduity, in search of building materials. Every now 
and then your path will be crossed by one of these busy old 
gentlemen, worrying about with awkward gait, as if troubled 
-with the gout, or with corns on his toes, casting about many a 
prying look, turning: down first one eye, then the other, in 
earnest consideration, upon every straw he meets wath; until, 
espying some mighty twig, large enough to make a rafter for 
bis air-castle, he will seize upon it with avidity, and hurry 
away mth it to the tree-top; fearing, apparently, lest you 
should dispute with him the invaluable prize. 

Like other castle-btiilders, these airy architects seem rather 
fanciful in the materials with which they build, and to like 
those most which come from a distance. Thus, though there 
ai"o abundance of dry twigs on the surrounding trees, yet they 
never think of making use of them, but go foraging in distant 
lands, and come sailing home, one by one, from the ends of the 
earth, each bearing in his bill some precious piece of timber. 

Nor must I avoid mentioning what, I grieve to say, rather 
derogates from the grave and honourable character of these 
ancient gentlefolk ; that, during the architectural season, they 
are subject to gTcat dissensions among themselves ; that they 
make no scruple to defraud and plunder each other ; and that 
sometimes the rookery is a scene of hideous brawl and commo- 
tion, in consequence of some delinquency of the kind. One of 
the partners generally remains on the nest, to guard it from 
depredation, and I have seen severe contests, when some 
sly neighbour has endeavoured to filch away a tempting rafter 
that has captivated his eye. As I am not willing to admit any 
suspicion hastily, that should throw a stigma on the general 
character of so worshipful a people, I am inclined to thinly that 
these larcenies are very much discountenanced by the higher 
classes, and even rigorously punished by those in authority; 
for I have now and then seen a whole gang of rooks fall upon 
the nest of some individual, pull it all to pieces, carry off the 
spoils, and even buffet the luckless proprietor. I have con- 
cluded this to be some signal punishment inflicted u])on him. 



198 BRAGEBIUDGE HALL. 

by the oflScers of the police, for some pilfering misdemeanour; 
or, perhaps, that it was a crew of baihffs carrying an execution 
into his house. 

I have been amused with another of their movements during 
the building season. The steward has suffered a considerable 
number of sheep to graze on a lawn near the house, somewhat 
to the annoyance of the Squire, who thinks this an innovation 
on the dignity of a i>ark, which ought to be devoted to deer 
only. Be this as it may, there is a green knoll, not far from 
the drawing-room ^\Tndow, where the ewes and lambs are ac- 
customed to assemble towards evening, for the benefit of the 
setting sun. No sooner were they gathered here, at the time 
when these pohtic birds were building, than a stately old rook, 
who Master Simon assured me was the chief magistrate of this 
community, would settle down upon the head of one of tlio 
ewes, who, seeming conscious of this condescension, would 
desist from grazing, and stand fixed in motionless reverence of 
her august burthen ; the rest of the rookery would then come 
wheehng down, in imitation of their leader, until every ewe 
had two or three of them carving, and fluttering, and battling 
upon her back. Whether they requited the submission of the 
sheep, by levymg a contribution upon their fleece for the bene- 
fit of the rookery, I am not certain; though I presume they 
followed the usual custom of protecting powers. 

The latter part of May is the time of great tribulation among 
the rookeries, when the young are just able to leave then* nests, 
and balance themselves on the neighbouring branches. Now 
comes on the season of "rook shooting;" a terrible slaughter 
of the innocents. The Squire, of course, prohibits all invasion 
of the kind on his territories ; but I am told that a lamentable 
havoc takes place in the colony about the old church. Upon 
this devoted commonwealth the village charges "with all its 
chivalry." Every idle wight that is lucky enough to possess 
an old gTin or bhmderbuss, together with all the archery of 
Slingsby's school, take the field on the occasion. In vain does 
the little parson interfere, or remonstrate, in angry tones 
from his study ^vindow that looks into the churchyard ; there 
is a continual popping, from morning till night. Being no great 
marksmen, their shots are not often effective ; but every now 
and then, a great shout from the besieging army of bumpkins 
makes known the downfall of some unhicky squab rook, which 
comes to the gi'ound with the emphasis of a squashed apple- 
dumphng. 



THE ItOOKKUy. 199 

Kor is the rookeiy entirely free from other troubles and 
disasters. In so aristocratical and lofty-minded a community, 
which boasts so much ancient blood and hereditary pride, it is 
niitural to suppose that questions of etiquette will sometimes 
arise and affairs of honour ensue. In fact, this is very often 
the case ; bitter quarrels break out between individuals, which 
produce sad scuffiings on tree-tops, and I have more than once 
seen a regular duel take place between two doughty h»-*roes of 
the rookery. Their field of battle is generally the air; and 
their contest is managed in the most scientific and elegant 
manner; wheeling round and round each other, and towering 
higher and higher, to get the vantage-ground, until they some- 
times disappear in the clouds before the combat is deter- 
mined. 

They have also fierce combats now and then with an invad- 
ing hawk, and will drive him off from their territories by a 
posse comifatus. They are also extremely tenacious of their 
domains, and will suffer no other bird to inhabit the gi'ove or 
its vicinity. There was a very ancient and respectable old 
bachelor owl, that had long had his lodgings in a corner of the 
grove, but has been fairly ejected by the rooks; and has re- 
tired, disgusted with the world, to a neighbouring wood, where 
he leads the life of a«hermit, and makes nightly complaints of 
his ill-treatment. 

The hoot-ings of this unhappy gentleman may generally be 
heard in the stiU evenings, when the rooks are all at rest; and 
I have often listened to them of a moonlight night with a kind 
of mysteriouG gratification. This gi*ay -bearded misanthrope, 
of course, is highly respected by the Squire ; but the servants 
have superstitious notions about him, and it would be difficult 
to get the dairy -maid to venture after dark near to the wood 
which he inhabits. 

Beside the private qrarrels of the rooks, there are other mis- 
fortunes to which they are Mable, and which often bring dis- 
tress into the most respectable families of the rookery. Having 
the true baronial spirit of the good old feudal times, they are a]">t 
now and then to issue forth from their castles on a foraj', and 
to lay the plebeian fields of the neighbouring country under con- 
tribution; in the course of which chivalrous expeditions, they 
now and then get a shot fi'om the rusty artillery of some re- 
fractory farmer. Occasionally, too, while they are quietly 
taking the air beyond the park boundaries, they have the in- 
caution to come within the reach of the tiiiant bowman of 



goo BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 

Slingsby's school, and receive a flight shot from some unlucky 
urchin's arrow. In such c^se, the wounded adventurer will 
sometimes have just strength enough to bring himself home, 
and, giving up the ghost at the rookery, will hang dangling "all 
abroad " on a bough, Mke a thief on a gibbet — ^an awful warning 
to his friends, and an object of great commiseration to the 
Squire. 

But, maugre all these untoward incidents, the rooks have, 
upon the whole, a happy holiday hfe of it. When their young 
are reared and fairly launched upon their native element, the 
air, the cares of the old folks seem over, and they resume all 
their aristocratical dignity and idleness. I have envied them 
the enjoyment which they appear to have in their ethereal 
heights, sporting with clamorous exultation about their lofty 
bowers; sometimes hovering over them, sometimes partially 
alighting upon the topmost branches, and there balancing with 
outstretched wings and swinging in the breeze. Sometimes 
they seem to take a fashionable drive to the church and amuse 
themselves by circling in airy rings about its spire ; at other 
times a mere garrison is left at home to mount guard in their 
stronghold at the grove, while the rest roam abroad to enjoy 
the fine weather. About sunset the garrison gives notice of 
their return ; their faint cawing wiD be heard from a great dis- 
tance, and they will be seen far off like a sable cloud, and then 
nearer and nearer, until they all come soaring home. Then 
they perform several grand circuits in the air over the HaU 
and garden, Avheehng closer and closer until they gi-adually 
settle down, when a prodigious cawing takes place, as though 
they were relating their day's adventures. 

I like at such times to walk about these dusky groves, and 
hear the various sounds of these airy people roosted so high 
above me. As the gloom increases, their conversation sub- 
sides, and they seem to be gradually dropping asleep; but 
every now and then there is a querulous note, as if some one 
was quarrelling for a pillow, or a Mttle more of the blanket. 
It is late in the evening before they completely sink to repose, 
and then their old anchorite neighbour, the owl, begins his 
lonely hooting from his bachelor's-hall in the wood. 



MAY-DA r. 201 



MAY-DAY. 

It is the choice time of the j-ear. 

For the violets now appear; 

Now tlie rose receives its birth, 

And pretty priiTxrose decks tlie earth. 
Then to the May-pole come awaj', 
For it is now a holiday. — Acteon and Diana. 

As I was lying in bed tliis morning, enjoying one of those 
half dreams, half reveries, which are so pleasant in the coun- 
try, when the birds are singing about the window, and the 
sunbeams peeping through the curtains, I was roused by the 
sound of music. On going down-stairs I found a number of 
villagers, dressed in their holiday clothes, bearing a pole orna- 
mented with garlands and ribands, and accompanied by the 
village band of music, under the direction of the tailor, the pale 
fellow who plays on the clarionet. They had all sprigs of haw- 
thorn, or, as it is called, "the May," in their hats, and had 
brought green liranches and flowers to decorate the Hall door 
and windows. They had come to give notice that the I\Iay-pole 
was reared on the green, and to invite the household to witness 
the sports. The Hail, according to custom, became a scene of 
hurry and delighted confusion. The servants were all agog with 
]\Iay and music ; and there was no keeping either the tongues or 
the feet of the maids quiet, who were anticipating the sports of 
the green and the evening dance. 

I repaired to the viUage at an early hour, to enjoy the merry- 
making. The morning was pure and sunny, such as a May 
morning is always described. The fields were white with 
daisies, the ha^vthorn was covered with its fragrant blossoms, 
the bee hummed about every bank, and the sv/aUow played 
high in the air about the village steeple. It was one of those 
genial days when we seem to draw in pleasure with the very 
air we breathe, and to feel happy we know not why. Who- 
ever has felt the worth of worthy man, or has doted on lovely 
woman, will, on such a day, call tliem tenderly to mind, and 
feel his heart all alive with long-buried recollections. "For 
thenne," says the excellent romance of Kmg Arthur, "lovers 
call ageyne to their mynde old gentilnes and old servyse, and 
many kind dedes that were forgotten by neglygence." 

Before reaching the village, I saw the May -pole towering 
above the cottages -svith its gay garlands and streamers, and 



Q02 BEACEBIUDGE HALL. 

heard the sound of music. I found that there had been booths 
set up near it, for the reception of company ; and a bower of 
green branches and flowers for the Queen of May, a fresh, rosy- 
cheeked girl of the village. 

A band of morris-dancers were capering on the green in 
their fantastic dresses, jingling with hawks' bells, with a boy 
dressed up as Maid Marian, and the attendant fool rattling his 
box to collect contributions from the bystanders. The gipsy- 
women too were already plying their mystery in by-corners 
of the village, reading the hands of the simple country girls, 
and no doubt promising them all good husbands and tribes 
of children. 

The Squire made his appearance in the course of the morning, 
attended by the parson, and was received with loud acclama- 
tions. He mingled among the country people throughout the 
day, giving and receiving pleasure wherever he went. The 
amusements of the day were-under the management of Slingsby, 
the schoohnaster, who is not merely lord of misrule in his 
school, but master of the revels to the village. He was bustling 
about, with the perplexed and anxious air of a man who has 
the oppressive burthen of promoting other people's merriment 
upon his mind. He had involved himself in a dozen scrapes, 
in consequence of a politic intrigue, which, by-the-by. Master 
Simon and the Oxonian were at the bottom of, which had for 
object the election of the Queen of May. He had met ^vitli vio- 
lent opposition from a faction of ale-drinkers, who were in 
favour of a bouncing bar-maid, the daughter of the innkeeper; 
but he had been too strongly backed not to carry his point, 
though it shows that these rural crowns, like all others, are 
objects of great ambition and heart-burning. I am told that 
Master Simon takes great interest, though in an underhand 
way, in the election of these May-day Queens, and that the 
chaplet is generally secured for some rustic beauty that has 
foimd favour in his eyes. 

In the course of the day, there were various games of strength 
and agility on the green, at which a knot of village veterans 
X)resided, as judges of the lists. Among these I perceived that 
Eeady-Money Jack took the lead, looking with a learned and 
critical eye on the merits of the different candidates; and, 
though he v/as very laconic, and sometimes merely expressed 
himself by a nod, yet it was evident that his opinions far out- 
weighed those of the most loquacious. 

Young Jack Tibbets was the hero of the day, and carried off 



^fAY-J)Ar. o()o 

most of the prizes, though in some of the feats of ngility he was 
rivalled by the "prodigal son," who appeared much in his ele- 
ment on this occasion ; but his most formidable competitor was 
the notorious gipsy, the redoubtable "Starlight Tom." I weis 
rejoiced at having an opportunity of seeing this "minion of the 
moon" in broad dayliglit. I found him a tall, swarthy, good- 
looking fellow, with a lofty air, something like what I have 
seen in an Indian chieftain; and with a certain loiuiging, easy, 
and almost graceful carriage, which I have often remarked in 
beings of the lazzaroni order, that lead an idle loitering Hfe, and 
have a gentlemanlike contempt of labour. 

Master Simon and the old general reconnoitred the ground 
together, and indulged a vast deal of harmless raking among 
the buxom country girls. Master Simon would give some of 
them a kiss on meeting with them, and would ask after their 
sisters, for he is acquainted with most of the farmers' families. 
Sometimes he would whisper, and affect to talk mischievously 
with them, and, if bantered on the subject, would turn it off 
with a laugh, though it was evident he liked to be suspected of 
being a gay Lothario amongst them. 

He had much to say to the farmers about their farms : and 
seemed to know all their horses by name. There was an old 
fellow, with round ruddy face, and a night-cap under his hat, 
the village wit, who took several occasions to crpck a joke with 
him in the hearing of his companions, to whom he would turn 
and wink hard when ^Master Simon h*id passed. 

The harmony of the day, however, had nearly, at one time, 
been interrupted by the appearance of the radical on the 
ground, with two or three of his disciples. He soon got 
engaged in argument in the very thick of the throng, above 
which I could hear his voice, and now and then see his meagre 
haiid, half a mile out of the sleeve, elevated in the air in vio- 
lent gesticulation, and flourishing a pamphlet by way of trun- 
cheon. He was decrying these idle nonsensical amusements in 
time of public distress, when it was every one's business to 
think of other matters, and to be miserable. The honest vil- 
lage logicians could make no stand against him, especially as 
he was seconded by his proselytes ; when, to their great joy. 
Master Simon and the general came drifting down into the field 
of action. I saw that Master Simon Avas for making off, as 
soon as he found himself in the neighbourhood of this fire-shij) ; 
but the general was too loyal to suffer such talk in his hearing, 
and thought, no d<^ubt, that a look and a word from a gentle- 



204 BRACEBBIDGE HALL. 

man would be suflQcient to shut up so shabby an orator. The 
latter, however, was no respecter of persons, but rather seemed 
to exult in having such important antagonists. He talked with 
greater volubility than ever, and soon dro^vned them in 
declamation on the subject of taxes, poor's rates, and the 
national debt. Master Simon endeavoured to brush along in 
his usual excursive manner, vfhich had always answered 
amazingly well with the villagers ; but the radical was one of 
those pestilent fellows that pin a man down to facts; and, 
indeed, he had two or three pamphlets in his pocket, to sup- 
port every thing he advanced by printed documents. The 
general, too, found himself betrayed into a more serious action 
than his dignity could brook ; and looked hke a mighty Dutch 
Indiaman, grievously peppered by a petty privateer. It was 
in vain that he swelled and looked big, and talked large, and 
endeavoured to make up by pomp of manner for poverty of 
matter; every home-thrust of the radical made him wheeze 
like a bellows, and seemed to let a volume of wind out of him. 
In a word, the two worthies from the Hall were completely 
dumbfounded, and this too in the presence of several of Master 
Simon's staunch admirers, who had always looked up to him 
as infallible. I do not know how he and the general would 
have managed to draw their forces decently from the field, 
had there not been a match at grinning through a horse-collar 
announced, whereupon the radical retired w^th great expres- 
sion of contempt, and, as &oon as his back was turned, the 
argument was carried against him all hollow. 

"Did you ever hear such a pack of stuff, general?" said Mas- 
ter Simon; " there's no tahdng with one of these chaps, when 
he once gets that confounded Cobbett in his head. " 

"S'blood, sir!" said the general, wiping his forehead, "such 
fellows ought all to be transported!" 

In the latter part of the day, the ladies from the Hall paid a 
visit to the green. The fair Julia made her appea,rance lean 
ing on her lover's arm, and looking extremely pale and inter- 
esting. As she is a great favourite in the village, where she 
has been known from childhood ; and as her late accident had 
been much talked about, the siglit of her caused very manifest 
delight, and some of the old women of the village blessed her 
sweet face as she passed. 

While they were walking about, I noticed the schoolmaster 
in earnest conversation with the young girl that represented 
the Queen of May, evidently ende^voiunng to spirit her up to 



U AY- J) AY. 0(,5 

some fomiidalsle undertaking. At length, as the party from 
the Hall approached her bower, she came forth, faltering at 
every step, until she reached the spot where the fair Julia 
stood between her lover and Lady Lillycraft. The little Queen 
then took the chaplet of flowers from her head, and attempted 
to put it on that of the bride elect ; but the confusion of both 
was so great, that the wreath would have fallen to the ground, 
had not the officer caught it, and, laughing, placed it upon the 
blusliing brows of his mistress. There was something charm- 
ing in the very embarrassment of these two young creatures, 
both so beautiful, yet so different in their kinds of beauty. 
Master Simon told me, afterwards, that the Queen of May was 
to have spoken a few verses which the schoolmaster had 
written for her ; but that she had neither wit to understand, nor 
memory to recollect them. "Besides," added he, "between 
you and I, she murders the king's English abominably ; so she 
has acted the part of a wise woman, in holding her tongue, and 
trusting to her pretty face." 

Among the other characters from the Hall was l^Irs. Hannah, 
my Lady LiUycraft's gentlewoman; to my surprise, she was 
escorted by old Christy, the huntsman, and followed by his 
ghost of a gi-ayhound ; but I find they are very old acquaint- 
ances, being dra^vn together by some sympathy of disposition. 
Mrs. Hannah moved about with starched dignity among the 
rustics, who drew back from her with more awe than they did 
from her mistress. Her mouth seemed shut as with a clasp ; 
excepting that I now and then heard the word "fellows!" 
escape from between her lips, as she got accidentally jostled in 
the crowd. 

But there was one other heart present that did not enter into 
the merriment of the scene, which was that of the simple 
Phoebe Wilkins, the housekeeper's niece. The poor girl has 
continued to pine and whine for some time past, in consequence 
of the obstinate coldness of her lover ; never was a little flirta- 
tion more severely punished. She appeared this day on the 
green, gallanted by a smart servant out of livery, and had 
evidently resolved to try the hazardous experiment of avraken- 
ing the jealousy of her love2% She was dress-ed in her very 
best; affected an air of great gaycty ; talked loud and girlishly, 
and laughed when there was nothing to laugh at. There was, 
however, an aching, heavy heart in the poor baggage's boson ), 
in spite of all her levity. Her eye turned every now and then 
in quest of her reckless lover, and her cheek grow pale, and 



206 BEAOEBMIDGB MALL. 

her fictitious gayety vanished, on seeing him paying his rustic 

homage to the httle May-day Queen. 

My attention was now diverted by a fresh stir and bustle. 
Music w^as heard from a distance ; a banner was seen advancing 
up the road, preceded b^ a rustic band playing something like 
a march, and followed by a sturdy throng of country lads, the 
chivalry of a neighbouring and rival village. 

No sooner had they reached the green, than they challenged 
the heroes of the day to nevv^ trials of strength and activity. 
Several gymnastic contests ensued, for the honour of the re- 
spective villages. In the course of these exercises, young Tib- 
bets and the champion of the adverse party had an obstinate 
match at wrestling. They tugged, and strained, and panted, 
without either getting the mastery, until both came to the 
gi^ound, and rolled upon the green. Just then, the disconsolate 
Phoebe came by. She saw her recreant lover in fierce contest, 
as she thought, and in danger. In a moment pride, pique, and 
coquetry, were forgotten ; she rushed into the ring, seized upon 
the aival champion by the hair, and was on the pomt of wreak- 
ing on him her puny vengeance, when a buxom, strapping 
(Country lass, the sweetheart of the prostrate swain, pounced 
upon her Uke a hawk, and would have stripped her of her 
fine plumage in a twinklmg, had she also not been seized in 
her turn. 

A complete tumult ensued. The chivalry of the two villages 
became embroiled. Blows began to be dealt, and sticks to be 
flourished. Phoebe was carried off from the field in hysterics. 
In vain did the sages of the village interfere. The sententious 
apothecary endeavoured to pour the soothing oil of his pliilo- 
sophy upon this tempestuous sea of passion, but was tumbled 
into the dust. Slingsby, the pedagogue, who is a great lover 
of peace, went into the ixddst of the throng, as marshal of the 
day, to put an end to the commotion ; but was rent in twain, 
and came out with his garment hanging in two strips from his 
shoulders ; upon which the prodigal son dashed in with fury, 
to revenge the insult which his pa^tron had sustained. The 
tmnult thickened ; I caught ghmpses of the jockey-cap of old 
Christy, like the helmet of a. chieftain, bobbing about in the 
midst of the scuffle ; wliilst Mistress Hannah, separated from 
her doughty protector, was squalHng and striking at right and 
left with a faded parasol ; being tossed and tousled about by 
the crowd in such wise as never happened to maiden gentle- 
woman before. 



i 



MAT-DAT. 20? 

At length I beheld old Ready -Money Jack making his way 
into the very thickest of the throng ; tearing it, as it were, 
apart, and enforcing peace, vi et armis. It was surprising to 
see the sudden quiet that ensued. The storm settled down at 
once into tranquillity. The parties, liaving no real gi-ounds of 
liostihty, were readily pacified, and in tact w^ere a httle -at a 
loss to know why and how they bad got by the ears. Slingsby 
was speedily stitched togethei- again by his friend the tailor, 
and resumed his usual good-humour. Mrs. Hannah drew on 
one side, to plume her rumpled feathers ; and old Christy, hav- 
ing repaired his damages, took her under liis arm, and they 
swept back again to the Hall, ten tunes more bitter against 
mankind than ever. 

The Tibbets family alone seemed slow in recovering from the 
agitation of the scene. Young Jack was evidently very much 
moved by the heroism of the unlucky Phoebe. His mother, 
who had been suimnoned to the field of action by news of the 
affray, was in a sad panic, and had need of all her manage 
mcnt to keep him from following his mistress, and coming tc 
a perfect reconcihation. 

AVhat heightened the alarm and perplexity of the good 
:nanaging dame was, that the matter had aroused the slow 
apprehension of old Ready-Money himself; who was very 
umcli struck by the intrepid interference of so pretty and deh- 
cate a girl, and ^vas sadly puzzled to understand the meaning 
of the violent agitation in his family. 

When all this came to the ears of the Squire, he was gi'iev- 
ously scandalized that his May-day fete should have been dis- 
graced by such a brawl. He ordered Phoebe to appear before 
liim ; but the girl was so frightened and distressed, that she 
came sobbing and trembling, and, at the first question he 
, asked, fell again into hysterics. Lady Lillycraft, who had 
' understood that there was an affair of the heart at the bot- 
. tom of this distress, immediately took the girl into great fa- 
' vour and protection, and made her peace with the Squire. 
r This was the only thmg that disturbed the harmony of the 
day, if we except the discomfiture of Master Simon and the 
general by the radical. Upon the whole, therefoj^e, the Squire 
had very fair reason to be satisfied that he had ridden his hobby 
throughout the day without any other molestation. 

The reader, learned in these matters, will perceive that all 

this was but a faint shadow of the once gay and fanciful rites 

■' ^{:vr. The peasantry have lost the proper feeling for these 



208 



BRACEBBIDQE HALL. 



rites and have grown almost as strange to them as the boors 
of La Mancha were to the customs of chivalry, in the days of 
the valorous Don Quixote. Indeed, I considered it a proof of 
the discretion with which the Squire rides his hobby, that he 
had not pushed the thing any farther, nor attempted to revive 
many obsolete usages of the day, which, in the present matter- 
of-fact times, would appear affected and absurd. I. must say, 
thou,2:h I do it under the rose, the general brawl in which this 
festival had nearly terminated, has made me doubt whether 
these rural customs of the good old times were always so very 
loving and innocent as we are apt to fancy them; and whether 
the peasantry in those times were really so Arcadian as they 
have been fondly represented. I begin to fear— 

" Those days were never; airy dream 

Sat for the picture, and the poet's hand, 
Imparting substance to an empty shade, 
Imposed a gay dehrium for a truth. 
Grant it; I still must envy them an agQ 
That favour'd such a dream." 






THE MANUSCRIPT. 

Yesterday was a day of quiet and repose, after the bustle of 
May-day. During the morning, I joined the ladies in a smaU 
Gitting-room, the windows of which came down to the floor, 
?md opened upon a terrace of the garden, which was set out 
with delicate shrubs and flowers. The soft sunshine that fell 
into the room through the branches of trees that overhung the 
windows, the sweet smeU of the flowers, and the singing of the 
birds, seemed to produce a pleasing yet calming effect on the 
whole party; for some time elapsed without any one speaking. 
Lady Lilly craft and Miss Templeton wore sitting by an elegant 
work-table, near one of the windoivs, occupied with som.c 
pretty lady-like work. The captain vs^as on a stool at his mis- 
tress' feet, looking over some music ; and poor Phoebe Wilkins, 
who has always been a kind of pet among the ladies, but wlio 
lias risen vastly in favour with Lady Lillycraft, in consequence 
of some tender confessions, sat in one corner of the room, with 
fi-woln eyes, working pensively at some of the fair Julia's wed- 
ding ornaments. 

The i-ilonc^ v-^« ipfprrnple^'^ "i'^y lioi' lnfly?hip, wli^ i?^if?rl':^p!Y 



THE MANUSCRIPT. 200 

proposed a task to the captain. "I aiii in your debt," said 
she, "for that tale you read tons the other day; I will now 
furnish one in return, if you'll read it: and it is just suited to 
this sweet May morning, for it is all about love !" 

The proposition seemed to dehght every one present. The 
captain smiled assent. Her ladyship iimg for her page, and 
despatched him to her room for the manuscript. "As the 
.captain," said she, "gave us an account of the author of his 
story, it is but right I should give one of mme. It was written 
by the parson of the parish where I reside. He is a thin, elderly 
man, of a delicat<> constitution, but positively one of the most 
charming men that ever hved. He lost his wife a few years 
since : one of the sweetest women you ever saw. He has two 
sons, whom he educates himself ; both of whom already write 
delightful poetry. His i:)arsonage is a lovely place, close by 
the church, all overrun with ivj- and honeysuckles; with the 
sweetest flower-garden about it ; for, you know, our country 
clergymen are almost alwaj's fond of flowers, and make their 
imrsonages perfect pictures. 

"His hving is a very good one, and he is very much 
beloved, and does a great deal of good in the neighbourhood, 
and among the poor. And then such sermons as he preaches I 
Oh, if you could only hear one taken from a text in Solomon's 
Song, all about love and matrimony, one of the sweetest things 
you ever heard ! He preaches it at least once a year, in spring- 
time, for he knows I am fond of it. He always dines with me 
on Sundays, and often brings me some of the sweetest pieces 
of poetry, all about the pleasures of melancholy, and such sub- 
jects, that make me cry so, you can't think. I wish he would 
publish. I think he has some thmgs as sweet as any thing of 
Moore or Lord Byron. 

"He fell into very ill health some time ago, and was 
advised to go to the continent ; and I gave hhn no peace until 
he went, and promised to take care of bis two boys until he 
returned. 

"He was gone for above a year, and was quite restored. 
When he came back, he sent me the tale I'm going to show 
you. — Oh, here it is I" said she, as the page put in her hands a 
beautiful box of satinwood. She unlocked it, and from among 
several parcels of notes on embossed paper, cards of charades, 
and copies of verses, she di^ew out a crimson velvet case, that 
smelt very much of perfumes, l^'^rom this she took a manu- 
script, flaintily writto^i O'^ A'ilr-C'lged vellum paper, and stitched 



210 



BRACEBRIDOE HALL. 



I 

This she handed to the captain 
_ _ Q, which I have procured for th 

entortaimaent of the reader. 



'vvith a light blue riband. This she handed to the captain, 
who read the following tale, which I have procured for the 



ANNETTE DELARBRE. 

The soldier f rae t'ue war returns, 
And tiie nierchaut f roin tlis main. 
But I bae parted with my love, 
A.nd ne'er to meet again, 

My dear. 
And ne'er to meet again. 

When day is gone, and night is come, 
And a' are boun to sleep, 
J think on them that's far awa 
The lee-lang night, and weep. 

My dear, 
The lee-lang night, and weep.— OZd Scotch BaUad. 

In the course of a tour that I once made in Lower Normandy, 
I remained for a day or two at the old town of Honfleur, which 
stands near the mouth of the Seine. It was the time of a fete, 
and aU the world was thronging in the evening to dance at the 
fair, held before the chapel of Our Lady of G-race. As I hke 
all kinds of innocent merry-making, I joined the throng. 

The chapel is situated at the top of a high hill, or promon- 
tory, from whence its bell may be heard at a distance by the 
mariner at night. It is said to have given the name to the port 
of Havre-de-Grace, which lies directly opposite, on the other 
side of the Seine. The road up to the clia^pel went in a zigzag 
course, along the brov/ of the steep coast ; it was shaded by 
trees, from between which I had beautiful peeps at the ancient 
towers of Honfleur below, the varied scenery of the opposite 
shore, the white buildings of Havre in the distance, and the 
vride sea beyond. The road was enhvened by groups of i3ea- 
Bant girls, in their bright crimson dresses and tall caps ; and I 
found all the flower of the neighbourhood assembled on the 
green that crowns the summit of the hill. 

The chapel of Notre Dame de G-race is a favourite resort of 
the inhabitants of Honfleur and its vicinity, both for pleasure 
and devotion. At this little chapel prayers are p^ up by the 
mariners of the port prGTio^i::^ to their voyages, and by their 
friAiids during their abfii-nf-e; a^Ti ^'CttiT-r ■•itTering'?; ar-f^ hi?ng 



ANJS'ETTE DELARBRE, 211 

.fcbout itij walls, in fulfilment of vows made during times 
of sliip-^v-reck and disaster. The chapel is surrounded by trees. 
Over the portal is aa image of the Vii'giu and child, with an, 
inscription which struck me as being quite poetical: 

' Etoile de la mer, piiez puur uousi" 
(Star of the sea, pray for as.) 

On a level spot near the chapel, under a gi'ove of noble trees, 
the populace dance on fine sunmier evenings ; and here are held 
fi'equent fairs and fetes, which assemble all the rustic beauty 
of the loveliest parts of Lower Normandy. The present was 
an occasion of the kind. Booths and tents were erected among 
the trees ; there were the usual displays of finery to tempt the 
rural coquette, and of wonderful sIioavs to entice the curious ; 
mountebanks were exerting their eloquence; jugglers and 
fortune-tellers astonishing the credulous ; while whole rows of 
grotesque saints, in wood and wax- work, were offered for the 
purchase of the pious. 

The fete had assembled in one view all the picturesque cos- 
tiunes of the Pays d'Auge, and the Cote de Caux. I beheld 
tall, stately caps, and trim bodices, aiccordmg to fashions which 
have been handed down from mother to daughter for centuries, 
the exact counterparts of those worn in the time of the Con- 
queror; and which surprised me by their faithful resemblance 
to those wliich I had seen in the old pictures of Froissart's 
Chronicles, and in the paintings of illuminated manuscripts. 
Any one, also, that has been in Lower Normandy, must have 
remarked the beauty of the peasantry, and that air of native 
elegance that prevails among them. It is to this country, 
undoubtedly, that the English owe their good looks. It was 
from hence that the bright carnation, the fine blue eye, the 
light auburn hair, passed over to England in the train of the 
Conqueror, and filled the land with beauty. 

The scene before me was perfectly enchanting : the assem- 
blage of so many fresh and blooming faces ; the gay groups in 
fanciful dresses ; some dancing on the green, others strolling 
about, or seated on the grass ; the fine clumps of trees in the 
foreground, bordering the brow of this airy height, and the 
broad green sea, sleeping in smnmer tranquillity in the dis- 
tance. 

Whilst I was regarding this animated picture, I was struck 
with the appearance of a beautiful girl, who passed through tlio 
crowd without seeming to take any interest in their amuse- 



212 , BBACEBRIDOE HALL. 

ments. She was slender and deKcate in lier form ; she liad noti 
the bloom upon her cheek that is usual among the peasantry of I 
Normandy, and her blue eyes had a singular and melancholyl 
expression. She was accompanied by a venerable-lookin^^ 
man, whom I presumed to be her father. There was a whisper! 
among the bystanders, and a wistful look after her as shej 
passed ; the young men touched theu^ hats, and some of the? 
cliildren followed her at a httle distance, watching her move- 
ments. She approached the edge of the hill, where there is a 
httle platform, from whence the people of Honfleur look out 
for the approach of vessels. Here she stood for some time 
waving her handkerchief, though there was nothing to be 
seen but two or three fishing-boats, like mere specks on the 
bosom of the distant ocean. 

These circumstances excited my curiosity, and I made some 
inqmiies about her, which were ansAvered with readiness and 
inteUigence by a priest of the neighbouring chapel. Our con- 
versation drew together several of the by-standers, each of 
whom had something to coromunicate, and from them all I 
gathered the following particulars. 

Annette Delarbre was the only daughter of one of the higher 
order of farmers, or small proprietors, as they are called, who 
lived at Pont I'Eveque, a pleasant village not far from Honfleur, 
ia that rich pastoral part of Lower Normandy called the Pays 
d'Auge. Annette was the pride and dehght of her parents, 
and was brought up with the fondest indulgence. She was-gay, 
tender, petulant, and susceptible. AU her feelings were quick 
and ardent; and having never experienced contradiction^ or 
restraint, she was little practised in self-control: nothing Ibut 
the native goodness of her heart kept her from running con- 
tinuaUy into error. 

Even while a child, her susceptibility was evinced in an 
attachment which she formed to a playmate, Eugene La 
Forgue, the only son of a widow, who lived in the neighbour- 
hood. Their childish love was an epitome of maturer passion ; 
it had its caprices, and jealousies, and quarrels, and reconcilia- 
tions. It was assuming something of a graver character, as 
Annette entered her fifteenth and Eugene his nineteenth 
year, when he was suddenly carried off to the army by tho 
conscription. 

It was a heavy blow to his widowed mother, for he was her 
only pride and comf ort ; but it was one of those sudden bcrccivo 
ments winch mothers were perpetually doomed to feel in 



Al^NETTE BELARBliE. 21;^ 

France, during the time that continual and bloody wars were 
incessantly draining her youth. It was a temporary affliction 
also to Annette, to lose her lover. With tender embraces, half 
childish, half womanish, she parted from him. The tcai-s 
streamed from her blue eyes, as she bound a braid of her fair 
hair round his wrist; bat the smiles still broke through; for she 
was yet too young to feel how serious a thing is separation, 
and how many chances there are, when parting in this wide 
wo]'ld, against our ever meeting again. 

Weeks, months, years flew by. Annette increased in beauty 
as she increased in years, and was the reigning belle of the 
neighbourhood. Her time passed innocently and happily. Her 
father ^vas a man of some consequence in the rural community, 
and his house was the resort of the gayest of the village. 
Annette hel'J a. kind ol" rural court ; she was always surrounded 
by companions of her own age, among whom she alone 
unrivalled. Much of their time was passed in maldng lace, the 
prevalent manufacture of the neighbourhood. As they sat at 
this dehcate and feminine labour, the merry tale and sprightly 
song went round; none laughed with a lighter heart than 
Annette ; and if she sang, her voice vras perfect melody. Their 
evenings were enhvened by the dance, or by those pleasant 
social games so prevalent among the French; and when she 
appeared at the village ball on Sunday evenings, she was the 
theme of universal admiration. 

As she was a rural heiress, she did not want for suitors. 
Many advantageous offers were made her, but she refused them 
all. She laughed at the pretended pangs of her admirers, and 
triumphed over them with the caprice of buoyant youth and 
conscious beauty. With all her apparent levity, however, 
could any one have read the story of her heart, they might 
have traced in it some fond remembrance of her early play- 
mate, not so deeply graven as to be painful, but too deep to be 
easily obliterated; and they might haye noticed, amidst all her 
gayety, the tenderness that marked her manner tov/ards the 
mother of Eugene. She would often steal away from her youth- 
ful companions and their amusements, to pass whole days with 
the good widow ; hstening to her fond talk about her boy, and 
blushing with secret pleasure, when his letters were read, at 
finding herself a constant theme of recollection and inquiry. 

At length the sudden return of peace, which sent many a 
warrior to his native cottage, brought back Eugene, a young 
Bun-bumt soldier, to the village. I need not say how raptur- 



214 BRACEBRIDGK BALL, 

ously his return was greeted by his mother, who saw in himj 
the pride and staff of her old age. He had risen in the service 
by his merits ; but brought away httie from the wars, except 
ing a soldier-hke air, a gallant name, and a scar across th€ 
forehead. He brought back, however, a nature unspoiled hj 
the camp. He was frank, open, generous, and ardent. His 
heart was quick and kmd in its impulses, and was perhaps \ 
little softer from having suffered : it was full of tenderness fo: 
Annette. Ho had received frequent accounts of her from 
mother ; and the mention of her kindness to his lonely parent^ 
had rendered her doubly dear to him. He had been wounded 
ho had been a prisoner ; he had been in various troubles, bui 
had always preserved the braid of her hair, wliich she hai 
bound round his arm. It had been a kind of talisman to him 
he had many a time looked upon it as he lay on the hari 
ground, and the thought that he might one day see Annet 
agam, and the fair fields about his native village, had cheered 
his heart, and enabled him to bear up against every hardship. 

He had left Annette almost a child — he foujid her a blooming 
woman. If he had loved her before, he now adored her. 
Annette was equally struck with the improvement which time 
had made in her lover. She noticed, with secret admiration, 
his superiority to the other young men of the village; the 
frank, lofty, military air, that distinguished him from all the 
rest at their rural gatherings. The more she saw him, the 
more her light, playful fondness of former years deepened into 
ardent and powerful affection. But Annette was a rural beUe. 
She had tasted the sweets of dom.inion, and had been rendered 
wilfcl and ca.pricious by constant indulgence at home, and 
admiration abroad. She was conscious of her power over 
Eugene, and dehghted in exercising it. She sometimes treated 
liim with petulant caprice, enjoying the pain which she inflicted 
by her frowns, from the idea how soon she would chase it away 
again by her smiles. She took a pleasure in alarming his fears, 
by affecting a temporary preference to some one or other of his 
rivals ; and then would delight in allaying them, by a.n ample 
measure of returning kindness. Porhaj^s there was some 
degree of vanity gratified by all this ; it might be a matter of 
triumph to show her absolute power over the young soldier, 
who was the universal object of female admiration. Eugene, 
however, was of too serious and ardent a nature to be trifled 
with. He loved too fervently not to be filled with doubt. He 
saw Annette surroundoi by admirers, and full of a,nlmation; 



AK2^ElTr: DELAKBRE. 215 

the gayest among the gay at all their rural festivities, and 
apparently most gay when he was most dejected. Evei-y one 
saw through this caprice, but liimself : every one saw that in 
reality she doted on him; but Eugene alone suspected the 
sincerity of her affection. For some time he bore this coquetry 
with secret impatience and distrust; but his feelings grew sore 
and irritable, and overcame his self-command. A shght mis- 
understanding took place; a quarrel ensued. Annette, unac- 
customed to be thwarted and contradicted, and full of the 
insolence of youthful beauty, assumed an air of disdain. She 
i-efused all explanations to her lover, and they parted in anger. 
That very evening Eugene saw liei", full of gayety, dancing with 
one of his rivals ; and as her eye caught his, fixed on her with 
unfeigned distress, it sparkled with more than usual vivacity. 
It was a finishing blow to his hopes, already so much impaired 
by secret distrust. Pride and resentment both struggled in his 
breast, and seemed to rouse his spirit to all its wonted energy. 
He retired from her presence, with the hasty determination 
never to see her again. 

A woman is more considerate in affairs of love than a man ; 
liccause love is more the study and business of her life. An- 
nette soon repented of her indiscretion ; she felt that she had 
used her lover unkindly ; she felt that she had trifled with his 
rincere and generous nature — and then he looked so handsome 
wiien he parted after their quarrel— his fine features lighted up 
by indignation. She had intended making up with him at the 
evening dance ; but his sudden departure preventc«d her. She 
now promised herself that when next they met she would am- 
ply repay him by the sweets of a perfect reconcHiation, and 
that, thenceforward, she would never— never tease him more ! 
That promise was not to be fulfilled. Day after day passed — 
but Eugene did not make his appearance. Sunday evening 
came, the usual time when all the gayety of the village assem- 
bled — but Eugene was not there. She inquired after him ; he 
had left the village. She now became alarmed, and, forgetting 
ail coyness and affected indifference, called on Eugene's mother 
for an explanation. She found her full of affliction, and learnt 
with surprise and consternation that Eugene had gone to sea. 

While his feelings vrere yet smarting w-ith her affected dis- 
dain, and his heart a prey to alternate indignation and despair, 
he had suddenly embraced an invitation which had repeatedly 
been made him by a relation, who was fitting out a ship from 
the port of Honfleur. ar.d who vvifshed mm to be ^hc- companion 



216 BEACEBHIDGIl HALL. 



hw! 



of his voyage. Absence appeared to him the only cure for jum 
unlucky passion; and in the temporary transports of his feel- i 
iiigs, there was something gratifying in the idea of having half | 
the world intervene between them. The hurry necessary for 
Ms departm-e left no time for cool reflection; it rendered him I 
- deaf to the remonstrances of his afflicted mother. He has-j 
tened to Honfleur just in time to make the needful preparations ''\ 
for the voyage; and the first news that Annette received of 
this sudden determination was a letter delivered by his mother, 
returning her pledges of affection, particularly the long-treas- 
ured braid of her hair, and bidding her a last farewell, in terms 
more full of sorrow and tenderness than upbraiding. 

This was the first stroke of real anguish that Annette had 
ever received, and it overcame her. The vivacity of her spirits 
was apt to hm-ry her to extremes; she for a time gave way to 
ungovernable transports of afiliction and remorse, and mani- 
fested, in the violence of her grief, the real ardour of her affec- 
tion. The thought occurred to her that the ship might not yet 
have sailed; she seized on the hope with eagerness, and has- 
tened with her father to Honfleur. The ship had sailed that 
very morning. From the heights above the town she saw it 
lessening to a speck on the broad bosom of the ocean, and 
before evening the white sail had faded from her sight. She 
turned full of anguish to the neighbouring chapel of Our Lady 
of Grace, and throwing herself on the pavement, poured out 
prayers and tears for the safe return of her lover. 

When she returned home, the cheerfulness of her spirits was 
at an end. She looked back with remorse and self -upbraiding 
at her past caprices ; she turned ^uth distaste from the adula- 
tion of her admirers, and had no longer any relish for the 
amusements of the vHlage. With hmniliation and diffidence, 
she sought the widowed mother of Eugene; but was received 
by her with an overflowing heart; for she only beheld in An- 
nette one who could sympathize in her doting fondness for her 
son. It seemed some alleviation of her remorse to sit by the 
mother all day, to study her wants, to begufle her heavy hours, 
to hang about her with the caressing endearments of a daugh- 
ter, and to seek by every means, if possible, to supply the place 
of the son, whom she reproached herself vsuth having driven 
away. — 

In the mean time, the ship made a prosperous voyage to her 
destmed port. Eugene's mother received a letter from him in 

which he IP^e^^tprl the pr-r^^pfinr^cv of bis departure. The 



ANNETTE DBLARBBE. ' 217 

voyage had given him time for sober reflection. If Annette 
I had been unkind to him, he ought not to have forgotten what 
;.was duo to his mother, wlio was now advanced in years. He 
^.accused himself of selfishness, in only listening to the sugges- 
r tionc of liis own inconsiderate passions. He promised to return 
with the ship, to make liis mind up to his disappointment, and 

to think of notliing but making his mother happy- "And 

when ho does return," said Annette, clasping her hands with 
transport, "it shall not be my fault if he ever leaves us again." 
, The time approached for the ship's return. She was daily 
expected, when the weather became dreadfully tempestuous. 
Day after day brought news of vessels foundered, or driven on 
shore, and the coast was strewed with wrecks. Intelligence 
v/as received of the looked-for ship having been seen dismasted 
in a violent storm, and the greatest fears were entertained for 
.her safety. 

Annette never left the side of Eugene's mother. She watched 
every change of her countenance with painful sohcitude, and 
' endeavoured to cheer her with hopes, while her own mind was 
racked by anxiety. She tasked her efforts to be gay; but it 
was a forced and unnatural gayety : a sigh from the mother 
would completely check it ; and when she could no longer re- 
strain the rising tears, she would hurry away and pour out her 
agony in secret. Every anxious look, every anxious inquiry 
of the mother, whenever a door opened, or a strange face 
appeared, was an arrow to her soid. She considered every dis- 
appointment as a pang of her own infliction, and her heart 
sickened under the careworn expression of the maternal eye. 
At length this suspense became insupportable. She left the 
village and hastened to Honfleur, hoping every hour, every 
moment, to receive some tidings of her lover. She paced the 
pier, and wearied the seamerf of the port with her mquiries. 
She made a daily pilgi'image to the chapel of Our Lady of 
Grace; hung votive garlands on the wall, and passed houi-s 
either kneeling before the altar, or looking out from the brow 
of the hiU upon the angry sea. 

At length word was brought that the long-wished-for vessel 
was in sight. She was seen standing into the mouth of the 
Seine, shattered and crippled, bearing marks of having been 
sadly tempest-tost. There was a general joy diffused by her 
return ; and there was not a brighter eye, nor a lighter heart, 
than Annette's, in the little port of Honfleur. The ship came 
to a,nchor in the riVf^v. r<^^(\ sliortlv after a boat put off fo?- t^-o 



mi 



218 BBAGEBBIDOB BALL. 

shore. The populace crowded down to the pier-head to wa 
come It. Annette stood blushing, and smihng, and trembling 
aoidweepmg; for a thousand painfully-pleasing emotions agi 
tated her breast at the thoughts of the meeting and reconcS 
ation about to take place. iecouciu 

Her heart throbbed to pour itself out, and atone to her gal- 
ant loTer for aU its errors. At one moment she would pfat 
to-self m a conspicuous situation, where she might catch Z 
view at once, and surprise him by her welcome; but the next 
moment a doubt would come across her mind, ^nd she wmUd 
Bhrmk among the throng, trembling and faii;t, and ga^png 
with her emotions. Her agitation increased as the boat d^tw 
near, until it became distressing; and it was almost a rehef to 
her when she perceived that her lover was not there She 
presumed that some accident had detained him on board of the 
ship; and she felt that the delay would enable her to gather 
more self-possession for the meeting. As the boat nearfd the 

shore, many inquiries were made, and laconic answers returned 
At length Amiette heard some inquiries after her lover.™ 
heart papitated-there was a moment's pause: the reply was 
brief, but awfid He had been washed from the deck, with two 
of the ci-ew, m the midst of a stormy night, when it was im° 
~^,^"'''^'"^Tf""'=''• ^P*^''^^"^ ^'^"ekbr^^^^^^^ 
waves^ the crowd; and Amiette had nearly fallen mto the 

of '^hfi^'^it'' "■^''"i''"'' "' ?f ^^ ""^"^ ^"^^^ « transient gleam 
of happmess, was too much for her harassed frame. Sne was 
carried home senseless. Her life was for some time despaired 
of, and It was months before she recovered her health buWie 
never had perfectly recovered her mind: it still rem=dned un 
settled with respect to her lover's fate. 

" Thesubject," coutinuedmy taformant, " is never mentioned 
maerhearmg; but she sometimes speaks of it herself and^S 
seems as though there were some vague train of hnpressions i 
her mind, m which hope and fear are strangely min^ler^^ii e 

wSthrrn.7.^^^^ 

round her the young companions in whose^ocietrshe used to 
delight ; and they will work, and chat, and sing, and laugh a° 
formerly; but she will sit silently among themranfwn lome-' 
>an.os weep in the midsT of their gayety :\nd, if spok^ to .^11- 

„ _..„ _._... ^_ „ „., _. .J! 



A SiSETTK DELA RBliK 219 

make no reply, but look up with streaming eyes, and sing 
a dismal little song, which she has learned somewhere, about a 
shipwreck. It makes every one's heart ache to sec her in tliis 
way, for she used to be the happiest creature in the village. 

"She passes the greater part of the time with Eugene's 
mother; whose only consolation is her society, and who dotes 
on her with a mother's tenderness. She is the only one that 
has perfect influence over Annette in every mood. The poor 
girl seems, as formerly, to make an effort to be cheerful in her 
company; but will sometimes gaze upon her with the most 
piteous look, and then kiss her gray hairs, and fall on her neck 
land weep. 

" She is not always m.elancholy, however; she has occasional 
intervals, when she will be bright and animated for days to- 
gether ; but there is a degree of wildness attending these fits of 
gayety, that prevents their yielding any satisfaction to her 
friends. At such times she will arrange her room, which is all 
covered with pictures of sliips and legends of saints ; and wiU 
wreathe a white chaplet, as if for a v/edding, and prepare v^ed- 
ding ornaments. She wiU listen anxiously at the door, and 
look frequently out at the windov/, as if expecting some one's 
arrival. It is supposed that at such times she is looking for 
her lover's return ; but, as no one touches upon the theme, nor 
mentions his name in her presence, the current of her thoughts 
is mere matter of conjecture. Now and then she will make a 
pilgrimage to the chapel of Notre Dame de Grace ; where she wiU 
pray lor hours at the altar, and decorate the images with wreaths 
that she had woven ; or wiU wave her handkerchief from the 
terrace, as you have seen, if there is any vessel intlire distance." 
Upwards of a year, he informed me, had now elapsed with- 
out effacing from her mind this singular taint of insanity; 
still her friends hoped it might gradually wear away. They 
had at one time removed her to a distant part of the countiy, 
in hopes that absence from the scenes connected witli her story 
might have a salutary effect ; but, when her periodical melan- 
choly returned, she became more restless and wretched than 
usual, and, secretly escaping from her friends, $et out on foot, 
without knowing the road, on one of her pilgrimages to the 
chapel. 

Tliis little story entirely drew my attention from the gay 
scene of the fete, and fixed it upon the beautiful Annette. 
^Vhile she was yet standing on the terrace, the vesper-bell was 
rung from the neighbouring chapel. She listened for a moment. 



220 BEACEBRIDGE HALL, 

and then drawing a small rosary from her bosom, walked 
that direction. Several of the peasantry followed her 
silence ; and I felt too much interested, not to do the same. 

The chapel, as I said before, is in the midst of a grove, on th^ 
high promontory. The inside is hung round with little modelg 
of ships, and rude paintings of wrecks and perils at sea, anc'^ 
providential deliverances — the votive offerings of captains ant 
crews that have been saved. On entering, Annette paused foj 
a moment before a picture of the virgin, which, I observed, h£ 
recently been decorated with a wreath of artificial flowers 
When she reached the middle of the cbapel she knelt dowi 
and those who followed her involuntarily did the same at 
little distance. The evening sun shone softly through thi| 
checkered grove into one window of the chapel. A perfec 
stillness reigned within ; and this stillness was the more impreg 
sive contrasted with the distant sound of music and merriment 
from the fan*. I could not take my eyes off from the poor su| 
pliant ; her li^DS moved as she told her beads, but her prayei 
were breathed in silence. It might have been mere fancy e: 
cited by the scene, tha.t, as she raised her eyes to heaven, 
thought they had an expression truly seraphic. But I am 
easily affected by female beauty, and there was something in 
this mixture of love, devotion, and i^artial insanity, that was 
inexpressibly touching. 

As the poor girl left the chapel, there wa« a sweet serenity in 
her looks ; and I was told that she would return home, and in 
all probability be calm and cheerful for days, and even weeks ; 
in which time it was supposed that hope predominated in her 
mental malady ; and that, when the dark side of her mind, as 
her friends call it, was about to turn up, it would be known by 
her neglecting her distaff or her lace, singing plaintive songs, 
and weeping in silence. 

She passed on from the chapel without noticing the fete, but 
smiling and speaking to many as she passed. I followed her 
with my eye as she descended the winding road towards Hon- 
Seiir, leaning on her father's arm. "Heaven," thought I, " has 
ever its store of balms for the hurt mind and wounded spirit, 
and may in time rear up this broken flower to be once more 
the pride and joy of the valley. The very delusion in which 
the poor p^iii walks, may be one of those mists kindly diffused 
by ProvMenee over the regions of thought, when they become 
too fruitful of misery. The veil may gradually be i^sed which 
obscures the horizon of her mind, 2S she is enabled st^-^adil v and 



ANNETTE DELARBRE. 221 

calmly to contemplate the sorrows at present hidden in mercy 
from her view." 

. On my return from Paris, about a year afterwards, I turned 
off from the beaten route at Rouen, to revisit some of the most 
striking scenes of Lower Normandy. Having passed through 
the lovely country of the Pays d'Auge, I reached lionfieur on 
a fine afternoon, intending to cross to Havre the next niorn- 
ing, and embark lor England. As I had no better way of pass- 
ing the evening, I strolled up the hill to enjoy the fin.^. prospect 
from the chapel of Notre Dame de Grace; and while there, I 
thought of inquiring after the fate of poor Annette Delarbre. 
The ];west who had told me her story was officiating at vespers, 
after which I accosted him, and learnt from him the remaining 
circumstances. He told me that from the time I had seen her 
at the chapel, her disorder took a sudden turn for the worse, 
and her health rapidly declined. Her cheerful intervals became 
shorter and less frequent, and attended with more incoherency. 
She grew languid, silent, and moody in her melancholy ; her 
form was wasted, her looks pale and disconsolate, and it was 
feared she would never recover. She became impatient of all 
sounds of gayety, and was never so contented as when Eugene's 
mother was near her. The good woman watched over her 
with patient, yearning solicitude ; and in seeking to beguile her 
sorrows, would half forget her own. Sometimes, as she sat 
looking upon her pallid face, the tears v.^ould fill her eyes, 
which, when Annette perceived, she would anxiously wipe 
them away, and tell her not to grieve, for that Eugene would 
soon return ; and then she would affect a forced gayety, as in 
former times, and sing a lively air ; but a sudden recollection 
woiild come over her, and she would burst into tears, hang 
on the poor mother's neck, and entreat her not to curse her 
for ha^dng destroyed her son. 

Just at tliis time, to the astonishment of every one, news was 
received of Eugene; who, it a^ppeared, was still living. When 
almost drowned, he had fortunately seized upon a spar which 
had been washed from the ship's deck. Finding himself nearly 
exhausted, he had fastened himself to it, and floated for a day 
and night, until all sense had left him. On recovering, he had 
found himeelf on board a vessel bound to India, but so ill as 
not to move without assistance. His health had continued 
precarious throughout the voyage; on ai-rivingin India, he had 
expoi-ir>iirod many vicissitudes, and had been transferred from 



223 BEACIi^BEWGE HALL. 



\ 



ship to sliip, and hospital to hospital. His constitution had 
enabled him to struggle through every hardship ; and he was 
now in a distant port, waiting only for the saihng of a ship to 
return home. 

Great caution was necessary in imparting these tidings to 
tho mother, and even then she was nearly overcome by the 
transports of her joy. But how to impart them to Annette; 
was a matter of still greater perplexity. Her state of mind had 
been so morbid; she Iiad been subject to such violent changes, 
and the cause of liov derangement had been of such an incon- 
solable and hopeless kind, that her friends liad always forborne' 
to tamper with her feelings. They had never even hinted at the 
subject of her griefs, nor encouraged the theme when she ad- 
verted to it, but had passed it over in silence, hoping that time 
would gradually wear the traces of it from her recollection, or, 
at least, would render them less painful. They now felt at a 
loss how to undeceive her even in her misery, lest the sudden 
recurrence of happiness might confirm the estrangement of her 
reason, (5r might overpower her enfeebled frame. They ven^ 
tured, however, to probe those wounds which they forinerly 
did not dare to touch, for they now had the balm to pour into 
them. They led the conversation to those topics which they 
had hitherto shunned, and endeavoured to ascertain the cur- 
rent of her thoughts in those varying moods that had formerly 
perplexed them. They found, however, that her mind was 
even more affected than they had imagined. All her ideas 
were confused and wandering. Her bright and cheerful moods, 
which now grew seldomer than ever, were all the effects of 
mental delusion. At such times she Iiad no recollection of her 
lover's having been in danger, but was only anticipating his 
arrival. " When the winter has passed aAvay," said she, " and 
the trees put on their blossoms, and the swallow comes back 
over the sea, he will return," When she was drooping and 
desponding, it was in. vain to remind her of what she had said 
in her gayer moments, and to assure her that Eugene would 
indeed return shortly. She v/opt on in silence, and appeared 
insensible to their words. Bat at times her agitation became 
violent, when she would upbraid herself with having driven 
Eugene from his mother, and brought sorrow on her gray 
hairs. Her mind admitted bub one leading idea at a time, 
wliich nothing could divert or efface ; or if they ever succeeded 
in interrupting the current of her fancy, it only became tho 
more incoherent, and increased the fevcrishness that preyed 



' ANNETTE DELARBRE. 223 

ipon both mind and body. Her friends felt more alarm for 
ler than ever, for they feared that her senses were ii'reccvera- 
3ly gone, and her constitution completely undermined. 

In the mean time, Eugene returned to the village. He was 
dolently affected, when the story of Annette was told him. 
With bitterness of heart he upbraided his own rashness and 
ufatuation that liad hurried him away from her, and accused 
aimself as the author of all her woes. His mother would de- 
scribe to him all the anguish and remorse of poor Annette ; the 
tenderness with which she clung to her, and endeavoured, 
even in the midst of her insanity, to console her for the loss 
of her son, and the touching expressions of affection that were 
mingled with her most incoherent wanderings of thought, until 
his feelings would be wound up to agony, and he would entreat 
her to desist from the recital. They did not dare as yet to 
bring Inm into Annette's sight ; but he was permitted to see 
her when she was sleeping. The tears streamed down his sun- 
burnt cheeks, as he contemplated the ravages which grief and 
imalady had made ; and his heart swelled almost to breaking, 
as he beheld round her neck the very braid of hair which she 
once gave him in token of girhsh affection, and which he had 
returned to her in anger. 

At length the physician that attended her determined to ad- 
venture upon an experiment, to take advantage of one of those 
cheerful moods when her mind was visited by hope, and to 
endeavour to engraft, as it were, the reahty upon the delusions 
of her fancy. These moods had now become very rare, for 
1 nature was sinking under the continual pressure of her mental 
[malady, and the principle of reaction was daily growing 
I weaker. Every effort was tried to bring on a cheerful interval 
of the kind. Several of her most favourite companions were 
kept continually about her ; they chatted gayly, \hej laughed, 
and sang, and danced; but Annette reclined with languid 
frame and hollow eye, and took no part in their gayety. At 
length the winter was gone ; the trees put forth their leaves ; 
the swallows began to build in the eaves of the house, and 
the robin and wren piped all day beneath the window. An- 
nette's spirits gradually revived. She began to deck her 
person with unusual care ; and bringing forth a basket of arti- 
ficial flowers, she went to work to wreathe a. bridal chaplot of 
wliito roses. Her companions asked her why she prepared the 
chaplet. "What!" said she with a smile, "have you not no- 
ticed the trees putting on their wed-ding dresses of blossoms ? 



224 BBACEBRIDOE HALL. 

Has not tlie swallow flown back over the sea? Do you not' 
know that the time is come for Eugene to return? that he will 
be home to-morrow, and that on Sunday we are to be married?" 

Her words were repeated to the physician, and he seized on 
them at once. He directed that her idea should be encouraged 
and acted upon. Her words were echoed through the house. 
Every one talked of the return of Eugene, as a matter of 
course ; they congratulated her upon her approaching happi- 
ness, and assisted her in her preparations. The next morning, 
the same theme was resumed. She was dressed out to receive 
her lover. Every bosom fluttered with anxiety. A cabriolet 
drove into the village. "Eugene is coming!" was the cry. 
She saw him alight at the door, and rushed with a shriek into 
his arms. 

Her friends trembled for the result of this critical experi- 
ment ; but she did not sink under it, for her fancy had pre- 
pared her for his return. She was as one in a dream, to whom 
a tide of unlooked-for prosperity, that would have overwhelmed 
his waking reason, seems but the natural current of circum- 
stances. Her conversation, however, showed that her senses 
were wandering. There was an absolute forgetfulness of all 
past sorrow — a wild and feverish gayety, that at times was 
incoherent. 

The next morning, she awoke languid and exhausted. All 
the occurrences of the preceding day had passed away from 
her mind, as though they had been the mere illusions of her 
fancy. She rose melancholy and abstracted, and, as she 
dressed herself, was heard to sing one of her plaintive ballads. 
When she entered the parlour, her eyes were swoln with 
weeping. She heard Eugene's voice without, and started. She 
passed her hand across her forehead, and stood musing, like 
one endeavouring to recall a dream. Eugene entered the 
room, and advanced towards her ; she looked at hhn with an 
eager, searching look, murmured some indistinct words, and, 
before he could reach her, sank upon the floor. 

She relapsed into a wild and unsettled state of mind; but 
now that the first shock v/as over, the physician ordered that 
Eugene should keep continually in her sight. Sometimes she 
-did not know him; at other times she would talk to him as if 
he were going to sea, and would implore him not to paii; from 
her in anger ; and v/hen he was not present, she would speak 
of him as if buried in the ocean, and would sit, with clasped 
hands, looking upon the gi'ound, the picture of despair. 



ANNETTE DELARBME. 225 

r As the agitation of her feehngs subsided, and her frame re- 
covered from the shock which it had received, she became 
more placid and coherent. Eugene kept ahnost continually 
near her. He formed the real object roiUK.l which her scattered 
ideas once more gathered, and which hnked them once more 
with the realities of life. But her changeful disorder now 
appeared to take a new turn. She became languid and inert, 
and would sit for hours silent, and almost in a state of lethargy. 
If roused from this stupor, it seemed as if her mind would 
• make some attempts to follow up a train of thought, but would 
soon become confused. She would regard every one that 
approached her with an anxious and inquirmg eye, that seemed 
continually to disappoint itself. Sometunes, as her lover sat 
holding her hand, she would look pensively in his face with- 
out saying a word, until his heart was overcome; and after 
these transient fits of intellectual exertion, she would sink 
again into lethargy. 

By degrees, this stupor increased; her mind appeared to 
have subsided into a stagnant and almost death-like calm. 
For the greater part of the time, her eyes were closed ; her face 
almost as fixed and passionless as that of a corpse. She no 
longer took any notice of surrounding objects. There was an 
awfulness in this tranquillity, that filled her friends with 
apprehensions. The physician ordered that she should be kept 
perfectly quiet ; or that, if she evinced any agitation, she should 
be gently lulled, like a child, by some favourite tune. 

She remained in this state for hours, hardly seeming to 
breathe, and apparently sinking into the sleep of death. Her 
chamber was profomidly stUl. The attendants moved about it 
with noiseless tread ; every thing was communicated by signs 
and whispers. Her lover sat by her side, Avatching her Avith 
painful anxiety, and fearing that every breatli which stole from 
her pale lips would be the last. 

At length she heaved a deep sigh ; and, from some convul- 
sive motions, appeared to be troubled in her sleep. Her agita- 
tion increased, accompanied by an indistinct moaning. One 
of her companions, remembering the physician's instructions, 
endeavoured to lull her by singing, in a low voice, a tender 
little air, which was a particular favourite of Annette's. Pi'ob- 
ably it had some connexion in her mind with her own story ; 
for every fond girl has some ditty of the kmd, linked in her 
thoughts with sweet and sad remembrances. 

^Vs she sang, the agitation of Amiette subsided. .V streak 



gg0 BRACEBBIDGK HALL. 

of i&Xm, colour came into her clieeks ; her eyehcls became swoln 
with rising tears, vmich trembled there for a moment, and 
then, steahng forth, com'sed down her pallid cheek. When 
the song was ended, she opened her eyes and looked about her, 
as one awakening in a strange place. 

" Oh, Eugene ! Eugene !" said she, '' it seems as if I have had 
a long and dismal dream ; what has happened, and what has 
been the matter with me?" 

The questions were embarrassing ; and before they could be 
answered, the physician, who was in the next room, entered. 
She took him by the hand, looked up in his face, and made the 
same inquiry. He endeavoured to put her off with some evasive 
answer;— " No, no!" cried she, " I know I have been ill, and I 
have been dreaming strangely. I thought Eugene had left us 
— and that he had gone to sea — and that — and that he was 
dro"\vned! — But he lias been to sea!" added she, earnestly, as 
recollection kept flashing ux)on her, ' ' and he has been wrecked 
— and we were all so wretched — ^and he came home again one 

bright morning — and Oh!" said she, pressmg her hand 

against her forehead, with a sickly smile, "I see how it is; all 
has not been right here : I begin to recollect —but it is all past 
now — Eugene is here ! and his mother is happy — and we shall 
never-never part again — shall we, Eugene?" 

She sunk back in her chair, exhausted ; the tears streamed 
down her cheeks. Her companions hovered round her, not 
knowing what to make of this sudden dawn of reason. Her 
lover sobbed aloud. She opened her eyes again, and looked 
upon them with an air of the sweetest acknowledgment. ' ' You 
are all so good to me !" said she, faintly. 

The physician drew the father aside. "Your daughter's 
mind is restored," said he; "she is sensible that she has been 
deranged ; she is growing conscious of the past, and conscious 
of the present. All that now remains is to keep her calm and 
quiet until her health is re-established, and then let her be mar- 
ried in God's name !" 

"The wedding took place," continued the good priest, "but 
a short time since ; they were here at the last fete during their 
honeymoon, and a handsomer and happier couple was not to 
be seen as they danced imder yonder trees. The young man, 
his v/if e, and mother, now live on a fine farm at Pont I'Eveque ; 
and that model of a ship which you see yonder, with white 
flowers wreathed round it, is Annette's offering of thanks to 
Our Lady of Grace, for having hstened to her prayers, and 
protected her lover in the hour of peril." 



ANNETTE DELARBRE. 227 

The captain having finished, there was a momentary silence. 
The tender-hearted Lady Lilly craft, who knew the story by 
heart, had led the way in weeping, and indeed had often begun 
to shed tears before they had come to the right place. 

The fair Julia was a little flurried at the passage where wed- 
ding preparations were mentioned ; but the auditor most affected 
was the simple Phoebe Wilkins. She had gradually dropt her 
work in her lap, and sat sobbing through the latter part of the 
j story, until toAvards the end, when the happy reverse had 
nearly produced another scene of hysterics. "Go, take this 
I case to my room again, child," said Lady Lilly craft, kindly, 
" and don't cry so much." 

"I won't, an't please your ladyship, if I can help it;— but I'm 
glad they made all up again, and were married. " 

By the way, the case of this lovelorn damsel begins to make 
some talk in the household, especially among certain httle 
ladies, not far in their teens, of whom she has made confidants. 
She is a great favourite with them all, but particularly so since 
she has confided to them her love secrets. They enter into her 
concerns with all the violent zeal and overvv^helming sympathy 
with which httle boarding-school ladies engage in the pohtics 
of a love affair. 

I have noticed them frequently clustering about her in private 
conferences, or walking up and down the garden terrace under 
my window, listening to some long and dolorous story of her 
afflictions ; of which I could now and then distinguish the ever- 
ecurring phrases, " says he," and " says she." 

I accidentally interrupted one of these little councils of war, 
when they were all huddled together under a tree, and seemed 
to be earnestly considering some interesting document. The 
flutter at my approach showed that there were some secrets 
imder discussion; and I observed the disconsolate Phoebe 
crimiphng into her bosom either a love-letter or an old valen- 
tine, and brushing away the tears from her cheeks. 

The girl is a good girl, of a soft melting nature, and shows 
her concern at the cruelty of her lover only in tears and droop- 
ing looks; but with the little ladies who have espoused her 
cause, it sparkles up into fiery indignation : and I have noticed 
on Sunday many a glance darted at the pew of the Tibbets's, 
enough even to melt down the silver buttons on old Ready- 
Money's jacket. 



228 BRACEBRIBGE HALL. 



TRAVELLING. / 

A citizen, for recreation sake, 

To s.-e the country would a journey talce 

Some dozen mile, or very little more; 

Taking his leave with friends two months before, 

With drinking liealths, and siiaking by the hand, 

As lie liad travail'd to some new-found land. 

— Doctor Merrie-Man, J.609. 

The Squire has lately received another shock in the saddle 
and been almost unseated by his marplot neighbour, the. inde^ 
fatigable Mr. Faddy, who rides his jog-trot hobby with equal- 
zeal; and is so bent upon improving and reforming the neigh- 
bourhood, that the Squire thmks, in a little while, it will be 
scarce worth living in. The enormity that has thus discom- 
posed my worthy host, is an attempt of the manufacturer to 
have a line of coaches established, that shall diverge from the 
old route, and pass through the neighbouring village. 

I believe I have mentioned that the Hall is situated in a 
retired part of the country, at a distance from any great coach- 
road ; insomuch that the arrival of a traveller is apt to make 
every one look out of the window, and to cause some talk 
among the ale-drinkers at the little inn. I was at a loss, there- 
fore, to account for the Squire's indignation at a measure 
apparently fraught with convenience and advantage, until I 
found that the conveniences of travelling w^ere among his 
greatest grievances. 

In fact, he rails against stage-coaches, post-chaises, and turn- 
pike-roads, as serious causes of the corruption of Enghsh rural 
manners. Tliey have given facilities, he says, to every hum- 
drum citizen to trundle his family about the kingdom, and. 
have sent the follies and fashions of town, whirling, m coach- 
loads, to the remotest parts of the island. The whole country, 
he says, is traversed by these flying cargoes ; every by-road is 
explored by enterprising tourists from Cheapside and the 
Poultry, and every gentleman's park and lawns invaded by 
cockney sketchers of both sexes, with portable chairs and port- 
fohos for drawing. 

He laments over this, as destroying the charm of privacy, 
and interrupting the quiet of country life ; but more especially 
as affecting the simphcity of the peasantry, and filhng their 
heads with half-city notions. A great coach-inn, he says, is 
enough to ruin the manners of a whole village. It creates a 



TliA VBLLINQ, 229 

horde of sots and idlers, mokes gapers and gazers and news- 
mongers of the common pec^ple, and knowing jockeys of tiie 
coimtry bumpkins. 

The Squire has something of the old feudal feeling. He looks 
hadv with regret to the "good old times" when journeys were 
only made on horseback, aii<l the extraordinary difficulties of 
jtravclling, owing to bad roads, bad accommodntions, and higli- 
wiy robbers, seemed to separate each village and hamlet from 
tlio rest of the world. The lord of the manor was then a kind 
of monarch in the little realm, around him. He held his court 
in liis paternal hall, and was looked up to with almost as much 
loyalty and deference as the king himself. Every neighbour- 
hood was a little world within itself, having its local manners 
(md customs, its local historj^ and local opinions. Theinhabi- 
tants were fonder of their homes, and thought less of wandering. 
It was looked upon as an expedition to travel out of sight of the 
parish steeple ; and a, man that had been to London was a vil- 
lage oracle If or the rest of his life. 

What a difference between the mode of travelling in those 
days and at present ! At that time, when a gentleman went on 
a distant visit, he sallied forth like a knight-erranfc on an enter- 
prise, and every family excursion was a pageant. How splendid 
and fanciful must one of those domestic cavalcades have been, 
v^'hcre the beautiful dames were mounted on palfreys magnifi- 
cently caparisoned, with embroidered harness, all tinkling with 
silver bells, attended by cavaliers richly attired on prancin::^' 
»teeds, and foUowed by pages and serving-men, as we see them 
represented in old tapestry! The gentry, as they travelled 
about in those days, were like moving pictiu^es. They delighted 
the eyes and awakened the admiration of the conmion people, 
and passed before them like superior beings ; and, indeed, tliey 
were sa; there was a hardy and healthful exercise connected 
with this equestrian style that made them generous and noble. 

In bis fondness for the old style of travelling, the Squire 
makes most of his journeys on horseback, though he lament ;: 
the modem deficiency of incident on the road, from the wart 
of fellow- wayfarers, and therapidit}^ wuth which every one c!r(} 
is vv'hirled along in coaches and post-chaises. In the " good oI;i 
times," on the contrary, a cavalier jogged on through bog and 
mire, from town to tov/n and hamlet to hamlet, conversing 
with friars and franklins, and all other chance companioiis of 
'the road; beguiling the way ^vith travellers' tales, which then 
were ti-uly wonderful, for every thing beyond one's neighbour- 



230 BBACEBRIDGE HALL. 

hood was full of marvel and romance; stopping at night a' I 
some " hostel," where the bush over the door proclaimed gooc 
wine, or a pretty hostess made bad mne palatable ; meeting a 
supper with travellers, or hstening to the song or merry stor 
of the host, whoTfas generally a boon companion, and preside^ 
at his own board; for, according to old Tusser's "Innholderi 
Posie," 

" At meales my friend who vitletli here 
And sitteth with his host, 
Shall both be snre of better cheere, 
And 'scape with lesser cost." 

The Squire is fond, too, of stopping at those inns which may 
be met with here and there in ancient houses of wood and' 
plaster, or calimanco houses, as they are called by antiquaries, , 
with deep porches, diamond-paned bow- windows, pannclled 
rooms, and great fire-places. He will prefer them to more spa- 
cious and modern inns, and would cheerfully put \k]y with bad 
cheer and bad accommodations in the gratification of his hu- 
mour. They give him, he says, the feelings of old times, inso- 
much that he almost expects in the dusk of the evening to see 
some party of weary travellers ride up to the door with plumes 
and mantles, trunk-hose, wide boots, and long rapiers. 

The good Sqmre's remarks brought to mind a visit that I 
once paid to the Tabbard Inn, famous for being the place of 
assemblage from whence Chaucer'rj pilgrims set forth for Can- 
terbury. It is in the borough of Southwark, not far from Lon- 
don Bridge, and bears, at present, the name of "the Talbot.'"^ 
It has sadly declined in dignity since the days of Chaucer, 
bcmg a mere rendezvous and packing-place of the great wagons 
that travel into Kent. The court-yard, which was anciently the 
mustering-place oi the pilgrims previous to their departure, 
was now lumbered with huge wagons. Crates, boxes, ham- 
pers, and baskets, containing the good things of town and 
country, were piled about them ; while, among the straw and 
litter, the motherly hens scratched and clucked, ' with their 
bimgry broods at their heels. Instead of Chaucer's motley and 
p.plendid throBg, I only saw a group of wagoners and stable- 
boys enjoying a circulating pot of ale; while a long-bodied dog 
sat by, with head on one side, ear cocked up, and wistful gaze, 
as if. waiting for his turn at the tankard. 

Notwithstanding this grievous declension, however, I was 
gratified at percei\dng that the present occupants were not im- 
conscious of the poetical renown of their mansion. An inscrip- 



THA YELLING. 231 

tion over the gateway proclaimed it to be the inn where Chau- 
cer's pilgi-iros slept on the night previous to their departure ; 
and at the bottom of the yard was a magnificent sign represent- 
ing them in the act of sallying forth. I was pleased, too, at 
noticing that though the present inn was compai-atively mod- 
ern, yet the form of the old inn was preserved. There were 
galleries round the yard, as in old times, on which opened the 
chambers of the guests. To these ancient inns have antiqua- 
ries ascribed the present forms of our theatres. Plays were 
originally acted in inn-yards. The guests lo'lled over the gal' 
leries, which answered to our modern dress-circle ; the critical 
mob clustered in the yard, instead of ,the pit ; and the gi'oups 
gazing from the garret-windows were no bad representatives of 
the gods of the sliilling gallery. When, therefore, the drama 
grew unportant enough to have a house of its own, the archi- 
tects took a hint for its construction from the yard of the 
ancient "hostel." 

I was so well pleased at finding these remembrances of 
Chaucer and liis poem, that I ordered my dinner in the little 
I)arlour of the Talbot. ¥7hilst it was preparing, I sat at the 
window musing and gazing into the court-yard, and conjuring 
up recollections of the scenes depicted in such lovely colours by 
the poet, until, hy degi'ees, boxes, bales and hampers, boys, 
wagoners and dogs, faded from sight, and my fancy peopled 
the place with the motley throng of Canterbury pilgrims. The 
galleries once more swarmed with idle gazers, in the rich 
dipsses of Chaucer's time, and the whole cavalcade seemed to 
pass before me. There was the stately knight on sober steed, 
who had ridden in Christendom and heauienesse, a.nd had 
"foughten for our faith at Tramissene;"— and his son, the 
young squire, a lover, and a lusty bachelor, with curled locks 
and gay embroidery; a bold rider, a dancer, and a writer of 
verses, singing and fluting all day long, and "fresh as the 
month of May;"— and his "knot-headed" yeoman; a bold 
forester, in green, with horn, and baudrick, and dagger, a 
mighty *bow in hand, and a sheaf of peacock arrows shining 
beneath his belt ;— and the coy, smiling, simple nun, with her 
gray eyes, her small red mouth, and fair forehead, her dainty 
person clad in featly cloak and " 'ypinched wimple," her choral 
beads about her arm, her golden brooch with a love motto, and 
her pretty oath by Saint Eloy ;— and the merchant, solemn in 
speech and high on horse, with forked beard and " Flaundrish 
bever hat ;"— and the lusty monk, " full faX and in good point," 



232 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. " . 

with berry brown palfrey, bis hood fastened with gold pin, 
wrought Avith a love-knot, his bald head shining like glass, and 
his face glistening as though it had been anointed; and the 
lean, logical, sententious clerk of Oxenforde, upon his half- 
starved, scholar-like horse ; — and the bowsing sompnour, with 
fiery cherub face, all knobbed with x^imples, an eater of garlic 
and onions, and drinker of "strong wine, red as blood," that 
cariied a cake for a buckler, and babbled Latin in his cups ; of 
whose brimstone visage " children were sore aferd;" — and the 
buxom wife of Bath, the widow of five husbands, upon her 
ambling nag, with her hat broad as a buckler, her red stock- 
ings and sharp spurs ; — and the slender, choleric reeve of Nor- 
folk, bestriding his good gray stot; with close-shaven beard, 
his hair cropped round his ears, long, lean, calfless legs, and a 
rusty blade by his side;— -and the jolly Limit our, with lisping 
tongue and twinkhng eye, well-beloved franklins and house- 
wives, a great promoter of marriages among young women, 
known at the taverns in every town, and ^j every "hosteler 
and gay tapstere." In short, before I was roused from my 
reverie by the less poetical but more substantial apparition of a 
smoking beef-steak, I had seen the Vv^hole cavalcade issue forth 
from the hostel-gate, with the brawny, double- jointed, red- 
haired miller, playing the bagpipes before them, and the 
ancient host of the Tabbard giving them his farewell God-send 
to Canterbury. 

¥7hen I told the Squire of the existence of this legitimate 
descendant of the ancient Tabbard Inn, his eyes absolutely 
ghstened with delight. He determined to hunt it up the very 
first time he visited London, and to eat a dinner there, and 
drink a cup of mine host's best wine in memory of old Chaucer. 
The general, who happened to be present, immediately begged 
to be of the party ; for he liked to encourage these long-estab- 
lished houses, as they are apt to have choice old "vvines. 



POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS. 2'63 



POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS. 

Farewell rewai-ds and fairies, 

Good housewives now may say; 
For now fowle sluts in dairies 

Do fare as well as they; 
And though thej' sweepe their hearths no lesse 

Thau maids Avere wont to doo, 
Yet who of late for cleanlinesse 

Finds sixpence in her shooe?— Bishop Corbet. 

I HAVE mentioned the Squire's fondness for the marvellous, 
and his predilection for legends and romances. His Ubrary 
contains a curious collection of old works of this kind, which 
bear evident marks of having been much read. In his great 
love for all that is antiquated, he cherishes popular supersti- 
tions, and Hstens, with very grave attention, to every tale, 
however strange ; so that, through his countenance, the house- 
hold, and, indeed, the whole neighbourhood, is well stocked 
with wonderful stories; and if ever a doubt is expressed 
of any one of them, the narrator wiU generally observe, that 
" the Squire thinks there's something in it." 

The Hall of com-se comes in for its share, the common people 
having always a propensity to furnish a great superannuated 
building of the kind with supernatural inhabitants. The 
gloomy galleries of such old family mansions; the stately 
chambers, adorned with grotesque cai*vings and faded paint- 
ings ; the sounds that vaguely echo about them ; the moaning 
of the wind ; the cries of rooks and ravens from the trees and 
chimney-tops ; all produce a state of mind fovourable to super- 
stitious fancies. 

In one chamber of the Hall, ^'ust opposite a door which opens 
upon a dusky passage, there is a fuU-length portrait of a war- 
rior in armour; when, on suddenly turning into the passage, I 
have caught a sight of the portrait, thrown into strong rehef 
by the dark pannelling against which it hangs, I have more 
than once been startled, as though it were a figure advancing 
towards me. 

To superstitious minds, therefore, predisposed by the strange 
and melancholy stories that are connected with family paint- 
ings, it needs but little stretch of fancy, on a m-oonlight night, 
or by the flickering light of a candle, to set the old pictures on 



234 BRACEBItlDGE HALL. 

the walls in motion, sweeping m their robes and trains about 
the galleries. 

To tell the truth, the Squire confesses that, he used to take a 
pleasure in his younger days in setting marvellous stories 
afloat, and connecting them with the lonely and pecuhar 
places of the neighbourhood. Whenever he read any legend 
of a striking nature, he endeavoured to transplant it, and give 
it a local ha,bitation among the scenes of his boyhood. Many 
of these stories took root, and he says he is often amused with 
the odd shapes in wliich they will come back to him in some 
old woman's narrative, after they have been circulating for 
years among the peasantry, and undergoing rustic additions 
and amendments. Among these may doubtless be numbered 
that of the crusader's ghost, which I have mentioned in the 
account of my Christmas visit; and another about the hard- 
riding Squire of yore ; the family Nimrod ; who is sometimes 
heard in stormy winter nights, galloping, with hound and horn, 
over a wild moor a few miles distant from the Hall. This I 
apprehend to have had its origin in the famous story of the 
wild huntsman, the favourite goblin in German tales ; though, 
by-the-by, as I was talking on the subject with Master Simon 
the other evening in the dark avenue, he hinted that h^ had 
himself once or twice heard odd sounds at night, very like a 
pack of hounds in cry; and that once, as he was returning 
rather late from a hunting diimer, he had seen a strange figure 
galloping along this same moor; but as he was riding rather 
fast at the time, and in a hurry to get home, he did not stop to 
ascertain what it was. 

Popular superstitions are fast fading awa.y in England, owing 
to the general diffusion of knowledge, and the bustling inter- 
course kept up throughout the country ; still they have their 
strong-holds and hngering places, and a retired neighbourhood 
like this is apt to be one of thenf. The parson tells me that he 
meets with many traditional behef s and notions among the 
common people, which he has been able to draw from them in 
the course of familiar conversation, though they are rather shy 
of avowing them to strangers, and particularly to "the gentry," 
who are apt to laugh at them. He says there are several of his 
old parishioners who remember when the village had its bar- 
guest, or bar-ghost — a spirit supposed to belong to a town or 
village, and to predict any impending misfortune by midnight 
shrieks and wailings. The last time it was heard was just 
before the death of Mr. Bracebridge's father, who was much 



I 



rOPULAR BVPERSTITIONS. 235 

beloved throughout the neighbourhood ; though there are not 
•wanting some obstinate unbehevers, who insisted that it was 
iiothing but the howhng of a watch-dog. I have been greatly 
delighted, however, at meeting with some traces of my old 
favourite, Robin Goodfellow, though under a different appella- 
tion from any of those by which I have heretofore heard hiiu 
called. The parson assures me that many of the peasantry 
believe in household goblins, called Dubbics, whic-h live about 
particular farms and houses, in the same way that Robin Good- 
fellow did of old. Sometimes they haunt the barns and out- 
houses, and nov/ and then will assist the farmer wonderfully, 
by getting in all his hay or corn in a single night. In general, 
however, they prefer to Mvo within doors, and arc fond of 
keeping about the gi-eat hearths, and basking, at night, after 
the family have gone to bed, by the glowing embei's. When 
put in particidar good-humour by the warmth of their lodg- 
ings, and the tidiness of the house-maids, they will overcome 
their natural laziness, and do a vast deal of household work 
before morning; churning the cream, brewmg the beer, or 
spinning all the good dame's flax. All tliis is precisely the 
conduct of Robin Goodfellow, described so charmingly by 
Milton: 

" Tells liOAv the drudging goblin sweat 
To earn his cream-bowl duly set. 
When ill one night, o'e glimpse of mom, 
His shado-.\'y tlail had thresh'd the com 
That ten day-labourers could not end; 
Then lay.s him down the lubber-fiend, 
And. stretch"d otit al! the chimney's length, 
Basks at the fire his hairy strength, 
And cpop-full, out of door he flings 
Ere the first cock his matin rings." 

But beside these household Dubbies, there are others of a 
more gloomy and unsocial nature, that keep about lonely baftus 
at a distance from any dwelling-house, or about ruins and old 
bridges. These are full of mischievous and often malignant 
tricks, and are fond of playing pranks upon benighted travellers. 
There is a storv^. among the old people, of one that haunted a 
ruined mill, just by a bridge that crosses a small stream ; how 
that, late one night, as a traveller was passing on horseback, 
the Dubbie jilmpod up behind him, and giasped him so close 
round the body that he had no power to help hnnself, but ex- 
pected to be squeezed to death : luckily his heels were loose, 
with which he plied the sides of his steed, and vras carried, 



236 BliACEBRlDQE HALL. 

with the wonderful instinct of a traveller's horse, straight to 
the village inn. Had the inn been at any greater distance, 
there is no doubt but he would have been strangled to death; 
as it was, the good people were a long time in bringing him to 
his senses, and it was remarked that the first sign he showed 
of returning consciousness was to call for a bottom of brandy. 

These mischievous Dubbies bear much resemblance in their 
natures and habits to those sprites which Heywood, in his 
Heirarchie, cahs pugs or hobgoblins : 

" Their dwellings be 

In corners of old houses least frequented 

Or beneath stacks of wood, and these convented, 

Make feai-full noise in butteries and in dairies; 

Robin Goodfeli'jw some, some call them fairies. 

In solitarie rooms these uprores keep, 

And beate at doores, to wake men from their slepe, 

Seeming to force lockes, be they nere so strong, 

And keeping Christmasse gambols all night long. 

Pots, glasses, trenchers, dishes, paunes and kettles, 

They will make dance about the shelves and settles, 

As if about the kitchen tost and cast, 

Yet in the morning nothing found misplac't. 

Others such houses to their use have fitted, 

In which base murthers have been once committed. 

Some have their fearful habitations taken 

In desolate houses, ruin'd and forsaken.' 

In the account of our unfortunate hawking expedition, I 
mentioned an instance of one of these sprites, supposed to 
haunt the ruined grange that stands in a lonely meadow, and 
has a remarkable echo. The parson informs me, also, that the 
belief was once very prevalent, that a household Dubbie kept 
about the old farm-house of the Tibbets. It has long been 
traditional, he says, that one of these good-natured goblins is 
attached to the Tibbets f amxily, and came with them when they 
moved into this part of the country ; for it is one of the pecu- 
liarities of these household sprites, that they attach themselves 
to the fortunes of certain famihes, and foUow them in aU their 
removals. 

There is a large old-fashioned fire-place in the farm-hoi^^e, 
which affords fine quarters for a chimney-corner sprite ti>at 
hkes to he warm; especially as Eeady-Money Jack keeps up 
rousing fires in the vnntcr-time. The old people of the village 
recoUect many stories about this gobhn, that were current in 
their young days. It was thought to have brought good luck 
to the house, and to be the reason why the Tibbets were always 
beforehand in the world, and why their farm was always in: 



POPULAR SUPEliSTITIONS. 237 

better order, their hay got in sooner, and their corn better 
stacked, than that of their neighbours. The present Mrs. Tib- 
bets, at the time of her courtship, had a number of these stories 
told her by the country gossips; and when married, was a 
little fearful about living in a house where such a hobgoblin 
was said to haunt : Jack, however, who has always treated this 
story with great contempt, assured her that there was no spirit 
kept about liis house that he could not at any time lay in the 
Ked Sea with one flourish of his cudgel. Still his wife has 
never got completely over her notions on the subject, but has a 
horseshoe nailed on the threshold, and keeps a branch of raun- 
try, or mountain ash, -svith its red berries, suspended from one 
of the great beams in the parlour — a sure protection from all 
evil spirits. 

These stories, however, as I before observed, are fast fading 
away, and in another generation or two will probably be com- 
pletely forgotten. There is something, however, about these 
nu-al superstitions, that is extremely pleasing to the imagina- 
tion; particularly those which relate to the good-humoured 
race of household demons, and indeed to the whole fairy my- 
thology. The English have given an inexplicable charm to 
these superstitions, by the manner in which they have asso- 
ciated them with whatever is most homefelt and delightfTil in 
nature. I do not know a more fascinating race of beings than 
these little fabled people, that haunted the southern sides of 
hills and mountains, lurked in flowers and about f oimtain-heads, 
ghded through key-holes into ancient halls, • watched over 
farm-houses and dairies, danced on the green by summer moon- 
light, and on the kitchen-hearth in winter. They seeni to 
accord with the nature of Enghsh housekeeping and English 
scenery. I always have them in mind, when I see a fine old 
English mansion, with its wide hall and spacious kitchen ; or a 
venerable farm-house, in which there is so much fireside com- 
fort and good housewifery. There was something of national 
character in their love of order and cleanliness ; in the vigilance 
with which they watched over the economy of the kitchen, and 
the functions of the servants; munificently rewarding, vrith 
silver sixpence in shoe, the tidy housemaid, but venting their 
direful wrath, in midnight bobs and pinches, upon the sluttish 
dairymaid. I think I can trace the good effects of this ancient 
fairy sway over household concerns, in the care that prevails 
to the present day among English hcj^^semaids, to put theii 
kitchens in oi-der before they go to Led. 



238 BRACEBRIBGE HALL. 

I have said, too, that these fairy superstitions seemed to me 
to accord with the nature of Enghsh scenery. They suit these 
small landscapes, which are divided by honey suckled hedges 
into sheltered fields and meadows, where the grass is mingled 
with daisies, buttercups, and harebeUs. When I first found 
myseK among Enghsh scenery, I was continually remhided of , 
the sweet pastoral images which distinguish their fairy my- 
thology ; and when for the first tune a chcle in the grass was 
pointed out to me as one of the rmgs where they were formerly 
supposed to have' held then- moonlight revels, it seemed for a 
moment as if fairy -land were no longer a fable. Brown, in his 
Britannia's Pastorals, gives a picture of the kind of scenery to 
which I allude : 

" A pleasant mead 

Where fairies often did their measures tread ; 
Which in the meadows make such circles green, 
' As if with garlands it had crowned been. 
Within one of tliese rounds u as to be seen 
A hillock rise, where oft the fairy queen 
At twiliglit sat." 

And there is another picture of the same, in a poem ascribed to 
Ben Jonson. 

" By wells and rills in meadows green, 
We nightly dance our heyday guise, 
And to our fairy king and queen 

We chant our moonlight minstrelsies." 

Indeed, it seems to me, that the older British poets, with that 
true feeling for nature which distinguishes them, have closely 
adhered to the simple and familiar imagery which they found 
in these populf^r superstitions ; and have thus given to their 
fairy mythology those continual allusions to the farm-house 
and the dairy, the green meadow and the fomitain-head, that 
fill our minds with the dehghtfui associations of rural life. ' It 
is curious to observe how the most beautiful fictions have their 
origin among the rude and ignorant. There is an indescribable 
charm about the illusions wibh which chimerical ignorance once 
clothed every subject. These twilight views of nature are 
often more captivating than any which are revealed by the 
rays of enhghtened philosophy. The most accomphshed and 
poetical minds, therefore, have been fain to search back into 
these accidental conceptions of what are termed barbarous ages, 
and to draw from them their finest imagery and machinery. 
If we look through our most admired poets, we shall find that 
their minds have been impregnated by these j>opiilar fancies, 



POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS. 239 

jR-nd that those have succceeded best who have adhered closest to 
the simphcity of their rustic originals. Such is the case with 
Sliakspeare in his Midsummer-Night's Dream, which so minutely 
describes the employments and anmsomonts of fairies, and em- 
bodies all the notions concerning them wliich were current 
among the vulgar. It is thus that poetry in England has 
echoed back every rustic note, softened into perfect melody ; it 
is thus that it has spread its charms over every-day life, dis- 
placing nothing, takmg tilings as it found them, but tinting 
them up with its own magical hues, until every green hill and 
fountain-head, every fresh meadow, nay, every humble flower, 
is full 01 song and story. 

I am dwelling too long, perhaps, upon a threadbare subject ; 
yet it brings up with it a thousand delicious recollections of 
those happy days of childhood, when the imperfect knowledge 
I have since obtained had not yet dawned upon my mind, and 
when a fairy tale was true history to me. I have often been 
so transported by the pleasure of these recollections, as almost 
to wish that I had been born in the days when the fictions of 
poetry were believed. Even now \ cannot look upon those 
fanciful creations of ignorance and credulity, without a lurk- 
ing regret that they have all passed away. The experience of 
my early days tells me, that they were sources of exquisite de- 
light : and I sometimes question whether the naturalist who 
can dissect the flowers of the field, receives half the pleasm^e 
from contemplating them, that he did who considered them 
the abode of elves and fairies. I feel convinced that the true 
interests and solid happiness of man are promoted by the 
advancement of truth ; yet I cannot but mourn over the plea- 
sant errors which it has trampled down in its progress. The 
fauns and sylphs, the household sprite, the moonlight revel, 
Oberon, Queen Mai), and the dehcious realms of fairy -land, all 
vanish before the hght of true philosophy ; but who does not 
sometimes turn with distaste from the cold realities of m.om- 
ing, and seek to recaii the sweet visions of the night? 



:^4U BliAUjbJBUlVUJ^ UALL,. 



THE CULPEIT. 

From fire, from water, and all things amiss, 
Deliver the house of an honest justice.— T7ie Widoto. 

The serenity of the Hall has been suddenly interrupted by a 
very important occurrence. In the course of this morning a 
posse of villagers was seen trooping up the avenue, with boys 
shouting in advance. As it drew near, we perceived Ready- 
Money Jack Tibbets striding along, wieldiag his cudgel in one 
hand, and with the other grasping the collar of a tall fellow, 
whom, on still nearer approach, we recognized for the redoubt- 
able gipsy hero, Starlight Tom. He was now, however, com- 
pletely cowed and crestfallen, and his courage seemed to have 
quailed in the iron gripe of the lion-hearted Jack. 

The whole gang of gipsy women and cliildren came dragging 
in the rear ; some in tears, others making a violent clamour 
about the ears of old Ready-Money, who, however, trudged on 
in silence with his prey, Jieeding their abuse as little as a hawk 
that has pounced upon a barn-door hero regards the outcries 
and cacklings of his whole feathered seraglio. 

He had passed through the village on his way to the HaU, 
and of course had made a great sensation in that most excita- 
ble place, where every event is a matter of gaze and gossip. 
The report flew like wildfire, that Starhght Tom was in custody. 
The ale-drinkers forthwith abandoned the tap-room ; Shngsby 's 
school broke loose, and master and boys swelled the tide that 
came rolhng at the heels of old Ready-Money and his captive. 

The uproar increased, as they approached the Hall; it 
aroused the whole garrison of dogs, and the crew of hangers- 
on. The great mastiff barked from the dog-house; the stag- 
hound, and the grayhound, and the spaniel, issued barking 
from the hall-door, and my Lady Lillycraft's httle dogs 
ramped and barked from the parlour window. I remarked * 
however, that the gipsy dogs made no reply to all these 
menaces and insults, but crept close to the gang, looking rounc 
with a guilty, poaching air, and now and then glancing up a 
dubious eye to their owners; which shows that the moral 
dignity, even of dogs, may be ruined by bad company ! 

When the throng reached the front of the house, they were, 
brought to a halt by a kind of advanced guard, composed of 
old Christy, the gamekeeper, and two or three servants of the 



THE CULPRIT. 241 

house, who had been brought out by the noise. The common 
herd of the village fell back with respect ; the boys were driven 
back by Christy and his compeers ; while Ready-Money Jack 
maintained his ground and his hold of the prisoner, and was 
surrounded by the tailor, the schoolmaster, and several other 
dignitaries of the village, and by the clamorous brood of 
gipsies, who were neither to be silenced nor intimidated. 

By this time the whole household were brought to the doors 
and windows, and the Squire to the portal. An audience was 
demanded by Ready-Money Jack, who had detected the prisoner 
in the very act of sheep-stealing on his domains, and had borne 
him oif to be examined before the Squire, who is in the com- 
mission of the peace. 

A kind of tribunal was immediately held in the servants' 
hall, a large chamber, with a stone floor, and a long table in 
the centre, at one end of which, just imder an enormous clock, 
was placed the Squire's chair of justice, while Master Simon 
took his place at the table as clerk of the court. An attempt 
had been made by old Christy to keep out the gipsy gang, but 
in vain, and they, with the village worthies, and the house- 
hold, half filled the hall. The old housekeeper and the butler 
were in a panic at this dangerous irruption. They hurried 
away all the valuable things and portable articles that were at 
hand, and even kept a dragon watch on the gipsies, lest they 
should carry off the house clock, or the deal table. 

Old Christy, and his faithful coadjutor the gamekeeper, acted 
as constables to guard the prisoner, triumphing in having at 
last got this terrible offender in their clutches. Indeed, I am 
inclined to think the old man bore some peevish recollection of 
having been handled rather rouglily by the gipsy, in the chance- 
medley affair of May-day. 

Silence was now commanded by Master Simon; but it was 
difficult to be enforced, in such a motley assemblage. There 
was a continual snarling and yelping of dogs, and, as fast as it 
was quelled in one corner, it broke out in another. The poor 
gipsy curs, who, like errant thieves, could not hold up their 
heads in an honest house, were worried and insiuted by the 
gentlemen dogs of the estabhslunent, without offering to make 
resistance ; the very curs of my Lady Lillycraft bullied them 
with impunity. 

The examination was condi.icted with great mildness and in- 
dulgence by the Squire, partly from the kindness of his nature, 
and partly, I suspect, because his* heart yearned towai'ds the 



242 BBACEBRIDGE HALL. 

culprit, who hafl found great favour in his eyes, as I have 
already observed, from the skill he had at various times dis- 
played in archery, morris-dancing, and other obsolete accom- 
plishments. Proofs, however, were too strong. Beady-Money 
Jack told his story in a straight-forward, independent way, 
nothing daunted by the presence in which he found himself. 
He had suffered from various depredations on his sheepfold 
and poultry-yard, and had at length kept watch, and caught 
the delinquent in the very act of making off with a sheep on 
his shoulders. 

Tibbets was repeatedly interrupted, in the course of his tes- 
timony, by the culprit's mother, a furious old beldame, with 
an insufferable tongue, and who, in fact, was several times 
., kept, with some difficulty, from flying at him tooth and nail. 
The wife, too, of the prisoner, whom I am told he does not beat 
above haff-a-dozen times a week, completely interested Lady 
Lillycraft in her husband's behalf, by her tears and supplica- 
tions; and several of the other gipsy women were awakening 
strong sympathy among the yoimg girls and msud-servants in 
the back-ground. The pretty, black-eyed gipsy girl whom I 
have mentioned on a former occasion as the sibjd that read the 
fortunes of the general, endeavoured to wheedle that doughty 
warrior into their interests, a,nd even made some approaches 
to her old acquaintance. Master Simon; but was repelled by 
the latter with all the dignity of office, having assumed a look 
of gravity and importance suitable to the occasion. 

I was a httle surprised, at first, to find honest Slingsby, the 
schoolmaster, rather opposed to his old crony Tibbets, and 
coming forward as a kind of advocate for the- accused. It 
seems that he had taken compa^ssion on the forlorn fortunes of 
Starlight Tom, and had been trying his eloquence in his favour 
the whole way from the village, but without effect. During 
the examination of Ready-Money Jack, Shngsby had stood like 
"dejected Pity at his side," seeking every now and then, by a 
soft word, to soothe any exacerbation of his ire, or to qualify 
any harsh expression. He now ventured to make a few obser- 
vations to the Squire, in palliation of the dehnquent's offence; 
but poor Slingsby spoke more from the heart than the head, 
and was evidently actuated merely by a general sympathy for 
every poor devil in trouble, and a liberal toleration for all kinds 
of vagabond existence. 

The ladies, too, large and small, with the kind-heartedness 
of the sex, were zealous on the side of mercy, and interceded 



THE C LLP HIT. . 243 

strenuously with the Squire : insomuch that the prisoner, find- 
ing himself unexpectedly surrounded by active friends, once 
more reared his crest, and seemed disposed, for a time, to put 
on the air of injured innocence. The Squire, however, with all 
liis benevolence of heart, and his lurking weakness towards the 
prisoner," was too conscientious to swerve from the strict path 
of justice. There was abundant concurring testimony that 
made the proof of guilt incontrovertible, and Starlight Tom's 
mittimus was made out accordingly. 

The sympathy of t u , ladies was i^ow greater than ever ; they 
even made some attempts to mollify the ire of I'eady-Money 
Jack ; but that sturdy i^otentate had been too much incensed 
by the repeated incursions that had been made into bis terri- 
tories by the predatory band of Starlight Tom, and he was 
resolved, he said, to drive the "varment reptiles" out of the 
neighbourhood. To avoid all further importunities, as soon as 
the mittimus was made out, he girded up his loins, and strode' 
back to his seat of empire, accompanied by his interceding 
friend, Slingsby, and followed by a detachment of the gipsy 
(rang, who hung on his rear, assailmg him vdth mingled pray- 
ers and execrations. 

The question now was, how to dispose of the prisoner— a 
matter of great moment in this peaceful estabhshment, where 
so formidable a character as Starlight Tom was like a hawk en- 
trapped in a dove-cote As the hubbub and examination had 
occupied a considerable time, it was too late in the day to send 
him to the county prison, and that of the village was sadly out 
of repair, from long want of occupation. Old Christy, who 
took great interest in the affair, proposed that the culprit 
should be committed for the night to an upper loft of a kind of 
tower in one of the outhouses, where he and the gamekeeper 
would mount guard. After much deliberation, this measure 
was adopted; the premises in question were examine(J and 
made secure, and Christy and his trusty ally, the one armed 
with a fowling-piece, the other with an ancient blunderbuss, 
turned out as sentries to keep watch over this donjon-keep. 

Such is the momentous allair that has just taken place, and 
it is. an event of too great moment in this quiet httle world, not 
to tuni it completely topsy-turvy. Labour is at a stand : the 
house has been a scene of confusion the whole evening. It has 
been beleagured by gipsy women, v/ith their children on their 
backs, waihng and lamenting ; while the old virago of a mother 
has cruised up and do\>Ti the lawn in front, shaking her head. 



244 BRAGEBRIBOE BALL. 

and muttering to herself, or now and then breaking into a 
paroxysm of rage, biTuidishing her list at the Hall, and de- 
noimcing ill-luck upon Eeady-Ivloney Jack, and even 'q^jOti the 
Squire himself. 

Lady Lilly craft has given repeated audiences to the culprit's 
weeping wife, at the Hail door; and the servant maids have 
stolen out, to confer with the gipsy women under the trees. 
As to the httle ladies of the family, they are all outrageous on 
Eeady-Money Jack, whom they look upon in the light of a ty- 
rannical giant of fairy tale. Phoebe Wilkins, contraiy to her 
usual nature, is the only one that is pitiless in the affair. She 
thinks ilr. Tibbets quite in the right ; and thinks the gipsies 
deserve to be punished severely, for meddhng with the sheep 
of the Tibbets's. 

Jn the mean time, the females of the family evinced all the 
provident kindness of the sex, ever ready to soothe and succour 
the distressed, right or wrong. Lady Liliycraft has had a 
mattress taken to the outhouse, and comforts and delicacies of 
ail kinds have been taken to the prisoner; even the little girls 
ha^/e sent then* cakes and sweetmeats; so that, I'll warrant, 
the vagabond has never fared so well in his life before. Old 
Christy, it is tiiie, looks upon every thing with a wary ej^e; 
struts about v/ith his blunderbuss with the air of a vetera^n 
campaigner, and will hardly allow himself to be spoken to. 
The gipsy women dare not come within gun-shot, and every 
tatterdemahon of a boy has been frightened from the park. 
The old fellow is determined to lodge Starhght Tom in prison 
with his ovai hands; and hopes, he says, to see one of the 
poaching crew made an example of. 

I doubt, after all, whether the worthy Squire is not the great- 
est sufferer in the whole affair. His honourable sense of duty 
obliges him to be rigid, but the overilowing kindness of Ms 
nature makes tiiis a grievous trial to him. 

He i£! not accustomed to have such demands upon his justice, 
in his truly pa^triarchal domam ; and it wounds his benevolent 
spirit, that wlhle prosperity and happiness are flowing in thub* 
bounteously upon him. he should have to inflict misery upon a 
fellow-being. 

He has been troubled and cast down the whole evening ; took 
leave of ihe family, on going to bed, with a sigh, instead of liis 
usual hearty and affectionate tone ; and will, in all probability, 
have a far more sleepless night than his prisoner, indeed, this 
unlucky affair has cast a damp upon the whole hOfj.sehold, as 



FAMJLY xMHSFOllTUNIilS. 245 

there appears, to bo an universal opinion that the unlucky cul- 
prit will come to the gallows. 

Morning. — The clouds of last evening are all blown over. A 
load has been taken from tlie Squire'c heart, and every face is 
once more in smiles. The gamekeeper made his appearance at 
an early hour, completely shamefaced and crestfallen. Star- 
light Tom had made his escape in the night; how he had got 
out of the loft, no one could tell: the Devil, they thi;nk, must 
have assisted him. Old Christy was so mortified that he would 
not show his face, but had shut himself up in his stronghold at 
the dog-kennel, and would not be spoken with. What has par- 
ticularly reheved the Squire, is, that there is very little likeli- 
hood of the culprit's being retaken, having gone off on one of 
the old gentleman's best hunters. 



FAMILY MISFORTUNES. 

The night has been unnily; where we lay, 
The chimneys were blown do^fn\.— Macbeth. 

We have for a day or two past had a flow of unruly weather, 
which has intruded itself into this fair and flowery month, 
and for a time has quite marred the beauty of the landscape. 
Last night, the storm attained its crisis ; the rain beat in tor- 
rents against the casements, and the wind piped and blustered 
about the old HaU v/ith^ quite a wintry vehemence. The mora- 
ing, however, dawned clear and serene ; the face.of the heavens 
seemed as if newly washed, and the sun shone with a brightness 
that was undimmed by a single vapour. Nothing over-head 
gave traces of the recent storm ; but on looking from my win- 
dow, I beheld sad ravage among the shrubs and flovv ers ; the 
garden-walks had formed the channels for Httle torrents ; trees 
were lopped of their branches ; and a small silver stream that 
wound through the park, and ran at the bottom of the lawn, 
had swelled into a turbid yellow sheet of water. 

In an establishment like this, where the mansion is vast, 
ancient, and somewhat afflicted with the infirmities of age, and 
where there are numerous and extensive dependencies, a storm 
is an event of a very grave nature, and brings in its train a 
multiplicity of cares and disasters. 

While the Squire was taking his breakfast in the gi-eat hall, 



246 BRACEBIUDQE BALL. 

he wa» continnally interrupted by some bearer of ill-tidings 
from some part or other of his domains ; he appeared to me like 
the commander of a besieged city, after some grand assault, 
receiving at his headquarters reports of damages sustained in 
the various quarters of the place. At one time the house- 
keeper brought Mm mtelligence of, a chimney blown. down, and 
a desperate leak sprung in the roof over the picture gallerj-, 
which threatened to obhterate a whole generation of his an- 
cestors. Then the steward came in with a doleroi story of 
the mischief done in the woodlands ; while the gamekeeper be- 
moaned the loss of one of his finest bucks, whose bloated car- 
cass was seen floating along the swoln current of the river. 

When the Squire issued forth, he was accosted, before the 
door, by the old, paralytic gardener, with a face full of trouble, 
reporting, as I supposed, the devastation of his fiower-bods, and 
the destruction of his wall-fruit. I remarked, however, that 
his intelligence caused a peculiar expression of concern, not 
only with the Squh*e and Master Sunon, but with the fair Julia 
and Lady Lillycraft, who happened to be present. From a 
few words which reached my ear, I found there was some tale 
of domestic calamity in the case, and that some unfortunate 
family had been rendered houoeless by the storm. Many ejacu- 
lations of pity broke from the ladies ; I heard the expressions of 
"poor, helpless beings," and "unfortunate little creatures," 
several times repeated ; to which the old gardener rephed by 
very melancholy shakes of the head. 

I felt so interested, that I could not help calling to the gardener, 
as he was retiring, and asking what unfortunate family it was 
that had suffered so severely ? The old man touched his hat, 
and gazed at me for an instant, as if hardly comprehending my 
question. "Family!" replied he, "there be no family in the 
case, your honour ; but here have been sad mischief done in 
the rookery !" 

I had noticed, the day before, that the liigh and gusty winds 
which prevailed had occasioned great disquiet among these airy 
liouseholders ; their nests being all filled with young, who were 
in danger of behig tilted out of their tree-rocked cradles. In- 
deed, the old bii-ds aiemselves seemed to have hard work to 
maintain a foothold ; some kept hovering and cawuig in the 
air; or, if they ventured to alight, they had to hold fast, flap 
their wings, and spread their tails, and thus remain see-saw- 
mg on the topmost twigs. 

In the course of the night, however, an awful calamity had 



I 



FA MIT. Y MISFORTUNES. 247 

taken place in this most sage and politic communit}-. There 
was a great tree, the tallest in the grove, which seemed to have 
been a kind cf court-end of the metropolis, and crowded \nAh 
the residence of those whom ]\raster Simon considers the nobility 
and gentry. A decayed limb of this tree had given way with 
the violence of this storm, and had come down with all its air- 
castles. 

One should be well aware of the humours of the good Squire 
and his household, to understand the genei^al concern expressed 
at this disaster. It was quite a pubhc calamity in this rural 
empire, and all seemod to feel for the poor rooks as for fellow- 
citizens in distress. 

The ground had been strewed with the callow young, which 
were now cherished in the aprons and bosoms of the maid-ser- 
vants,- and the little ladies of the family. I was pleased -^vith 
this touch of nature ; this feminine sympathy in the sufferings 
of the offspring, and the maternal anxiety of the parent birds. 

It was interesting, too, to witness the general agitation a.nd 
distress that seemed to prevail throughout the feathered com- 
munity ; the common cause that was made of it ; and the inces- 
sant hovering, and fluttering, and lamenting, that took place 
in the whole rookery. There is a cord of sympathy, that nms 
through the whole feathered race, as to any misfortunes of the 
young ; and the cries of a wounded bird in the breeding Season 
Avill throw a whole grove in a flutter and an alarm. Indeed, 
why should I confine it to the feathered tribe? Nature seems 
to me to have implanted an exquisite sympathy on this subject, 
which extends through all her works. It is an invariable at- 
tribute of the female heart, to melt at the cry of early helpless- 
ness, and to take an instinctive interest in the distresses of the 
parent and its young. On the present occasion, the ladies of 
the family were full of pity and commiseration ; and I shall 
never forget the look that Lady Lilly craft gave the general, on 
his observing that the young birds would make an excellent 
curry, or an especial good rook-pie. 



248 BRACEBRIBGE BALL. 



LOVEES' TEOUBLES. 

The poor soul sat singing by a sycamore tree, 

Sing all a green -willow ; 
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee 

Sing willow, willow, willow- 
Sing all a green willow must be my garland.— OZd Scmg. 

The fair Julia having nearly recovered from the effects of 
her hawking disaster, it begins to be thought liigh time to 
appoint a day for the wedding. As every domestic event in 
i venerable and aristocratic family connexion like this is a 
natter of moment, the fixmg upon this important d^y has 
)i course given rise to much conference and debate. 

Some slight diificulties and demurs have lately sprung up, 
originating in the peculiar humours that are prevalent at the 
Hail. Thus, I have overheard a very solemn consultation 
between Lady Lillycraft, the parson, and Master Simon, as to 
whether the m.arriage ought not to be postponed until the 
coming month. 

With all the charms of the flowery month of ^lay, there is, 
I find, an ancient prejudice against it as a marrying month. 
An old proverb says, "To wed in May is to wed poverty." 
Now, as Lady Lillycraft is very much given to believe in lucky 
and iiiiLucky times and seasons, and indeed is very supersti- 
tious on all points relating to the tender passion,, this old pro- 
verb seems to have taken great hold upon her mind. She 
recollects two or three instances, in her own knowledge, of 
matches that took place in this month, and proved very un- 
fortmiate. Indeed, an own cousin of hers, who married on a 
May-day, lost her husband by a fall from his horse, after they 
liad lived happily together for twenty years. 

The parson appeared to give great weight to her. ladyship's 
objections, and acknowledged the existence of a prejudice of 
the kind, not merely confined to modem times, but prevalent 
likewise among the ancients. In confirmation of this, he 
quoted a passage from Ovid, which had a great effect on Lady 
Lillycraft, being given in a language which she did not under- 
stand. Even Master Simon was staggered by it ; for he listened 
with a puzzled air; and then, shaking his head, sagaciously 
observed, that Ovid was certainly a very wise man. 

From this sage conference I likewise gathered several other 



LOVERS' TROUBLES. 249 

important pieces of information, relative to weddings ; such as 
that, if two were celebrated m the same church, on the same 
day, the first would be happy, the second unfortunate. If, on 
going to church, the bridal party should meet the funeral of a 
female, it was an omen that the bride would die first ; if of a 
male, the bridegroom. If the newly-married couple were to 
dance together on their wedding-day, the wife would thence- 
forth rule the roast ; with many other curious and unquestion- 
able facts of the same nature, all which made me ponder more 
than ever upon the perils which surround this happy state, and 
the thoughtless ignorance of moi'tals as to the awful risks they 
run in venturing upon it. I abstain, however, from enlarging 
upon this topic, having no inchnation to promote the increase 
of bachelors. 

Notwithstanding the due weight which the Squire gives to 
traditional saws and ancient opinions, yet I am happy to find 
that he makes a firm stand for the credit of tliis loving month, 
and brings to his aid a whole legion of poetical authorities ; all 
which, I presume, have been conclusive with the young couple, 
as I understand they are perfectly wilUng to marry in May, 
and abide the consequences. In a few days, therefore, the 
wedding is to take place, and the Hall is in a buzz of anticipa- 
tion. The housekeeper is bustling about from morning till 
night, with a look fuU of business and importance, having a 
thousand arrangements to make, the Squire intending to keep 
open house on the occasion ; and as to the house-maids, you 
cannot look one of them in the face, but the rogue begins to 
colour up and simper. 

While, however, this leading love affair is going on with a 
tranquillity quite inconsistent with the rules of romance, I can- 
not say that the under-plots are equally propitious. The 
"opening bud of love" between the general and Lady LiUy- 
craft seems to have experienced some blight in the course of 
this genial season. I do not think the general has ever been 
able to retrieve the ground he lost, when he fell asleep during 
the captain's story. Indeed. Master Simon thinks his case is 
completely desperate, her ladyship having determined that he 
is quifco destitute of sentiment. 

The season has been equally unpropitious to the lovelorn 
Phoebe Wiikins. I fea.r the reader will be impatient at ha^dng 
this humble amour so often alluded to ; but I confess I am apt 
to take a great interest in the love troubles of simple girls of 
this cla^s. Few people have an idea of the world of care and 



250 BRACEBRIDGE BALL. 

perplexity that these poor daxQsels have, in managing the 
affairs of the heart. 

We talk and write about the tender passion ; we give it all 
the colourings of sentiment and romance, and lay the scene of 
its influence in high life; but, after all, I doubt whether its 
sway is not more absolute among females of an humbler sphere. 
How often, could we but look into the heart, should we find 
the sentunent throbbing in all its violence in the bosom of the 
poor lady's-maid, rather than in that of the brilliant beauty she 
is decking out for conquest ; whose brain is probably bewildered 
with beaux, ball-rooms, and wax-light chandeliers. 

"With' these humble beings, love is an honest, engrossing con- 
cern. They have no ideas of settlements, establishments, equi- 
pages, and pm-money. The heart — the heart, is all-in-all with 
them, poor things ! There is seldom one of them but has her 
love cares, and love secrets ; her doubts, and hopes, and fears, 
equal to those of any heroine of romance, and ten times as 
sincere. And then, too, there is her secret hoard of love docu- 
ments; — the broken sixpence, the gilded brooch, the lock of 
hair, the unintelligible love scrawl, all treasured up in her box 
of Sunday finery, for private contemplation. 

How many crosses and trials is she exposed to from some 
lynx-eyed dame, or staid old vestal of a mistress, who keeps 
a dragon watch over her virtue, and scouts the lover from 
the door! But then, how sweet are the little love scenes, 
snatched at distant intervals of holiday, and fondly dwelt on 
through many a long day of household labour and confine- 
ment ! If in the country, it is the dance at the fair or wake, 
the interview in the church-yard after service, or the evening 
stroll in the green lane. If in town, it is perhaps merely 
a stolen moment of delicious talk between the bars of the 
area, fearful every instant of being seen; and then, how 
lightly wiU the simple creature carol all day afterwards at her 
labour ! 

Poor baggage ! after all her crosses and difficulties, when she 
marries, what is it but to exchange a life of comparative ease 
and comfort, for one of toil and uncertainty? Perhaps, too, 
the lovor for whom in the fondness of her nature she has com 
mitted herself to fortune's freaks, turns out a worthless churl, 
the dissolute, hard-hearted husband of low hfe ; who, taking to 
the ale-house, leaves her to a cheerless home, to labour, penury, 
and child-bearing. 

When I see poor Phoebe going about with drooping eye, and 



LOVERS' TROUBLES. 251 

her head hanging "all o' one side," I cannot help calling to 
mind the pathetic little picture drawn by Desdemona: — 

My mother had a maid, called Baibara; 
She was in love; and he she loved pi'oved mad. 
And did forsake her; she had a song of willow, 
An old thing 'twas; but it express'd her fortune, 
And she died singing it. 

I hope, however, that .a better lot is in reserve for Phoebe 
Wilkins, and that she may yet "rule the roast,"" in the ancient 
empii-e of the Tibbets ! She is not fit to battle with hard hearts 
or hard times. She was, I am told, the pet of her poor mother, 
who was proud of the beauty of her child, and brought her up 
more tenderly than a village girl ought to be ; and ever since 
she has been left an orphan, the good ladies at the Hall have 
completed the softening and spoiling of her. 

I have recently observed her holding long conferences in the 
church-yard, and up and down one of the lanes near the vil- 
lage, with Slingsby, the schoolmaster. I at first thought the 
pedagogue might be touched with the tender malady so preva- 
lent in these parts of late ; but I did him injustice. Honest 
Slingsby, it seems, was a friend and crony of her late father, 
the parish clerk; and is on intimate terms with the Tibbets 
family. Prompted, therefore, by his good- will towards all par- 
ties, and secretly instigated, perhaps, by the managing dame 
Tibbets, he has undertaken to talk with Phoebe upon the sub- 
ject. He gives her, however, but little encouragement. 
Shngsby has a formidable opinion of the aristocratical feeling of 
old Ready-Money, and thinks, if Phoebe were even to make the 
matter up with the son, she would find the father totally hos- 
tile to the match. The poor damsel, therefore, is reduced 
almost to despaii' ; and Slingsby, who is too good-natured not 
to sympathize in her distress, has advised her to give up all 
thoughts of young Jack, and has proposed as a substitute his 
learned coadjutor, the prodigal son. He has even, in the full- 
ness of his heart, offered to give up the school-house to them ; 
though it would leave him once more adrift in the wide worici. 



252 BHACEBIUDGE HALL. 



THE HISTORIAN. 

Hermione. Pray you sit by us, 

And teirs a tale. 

Mamilius. Merry or sad shall't be? 

Hermione. As merry as you will. 

Mamilius. A sad tale's best for winter. 

I have oue of sprites and goblins. 

Hermione. Let's have that, sir. 

—Winter's Tale. 

As tills is a story- telling age, I have been tempted occasion- 
ally to give the reader one of the many tales that are served 
up with supper at the HaU. I might, indeed, have furnished a 
series almost equal in number to the Ai-abian Nights ; but some 
were rather hackneyed and tedious ; others I did not feel war- 
ranted in betraying into print; and many more were of the 
old general's relating, and turned prmcipally upon tiger-hunt- 
ing, elephant-riding, and Seringapatam ; enlivened by the won- 
derful deeds of Tippoo Saib, and the excellent jokes of Major 
Pendergast. 

I had all along maintained a qmet post at a corner of the 
table, Avhere I had been able to indulge my humour undis- 
turbed: hstenmg attentively when the story was very good, 
and dozing a little when it was rather dull, which I consider 
the perfection of auditorship. 

I Avas roused the other evening from a slight trance into 
which I had fallen during one of the general's histories, by a 
sudden call from the Squire to furnish some entertainment of 
the kind in my turn. Hp.ving been so profound a hstener to 
others, I could not in conscience refuse ; but neither my mem- 
ory nor invention bemg ready to answer so unexpected a 
demand, I ])egged leave to read a manuscript tale from the pen 
of my fellow-countryman, the late Mr. Diedrich Knickerboclver, 
the liistorian of New-York. A.9, this ancient chronicler may 
not be better known to my readers than he was to thecf)mpany 
at the Hall, a word or two concerning him may not be amiss, 
before proceeding to his manuscript. 

Diedrich Knickerbocker was a native of New- York, a descen- 
dant from one of the ancient Dutch famihes T%diich originally 
settled that province, and remained there after it was taken 
possession of by the English in 1664. The descendants of these 
Dutch famihes still remain in vihagoB and neighbourhoods in 



TllK HISTORIAN. 253 

various parts of the country, retaining with singular obstmacy, 
the dresses, manners, and even language of their ancestors, and 
forming a very distinct and curious feature in the motley pop- 
ulation of the State. In a hamlet whose spire may be seen from 
New- York, rising from above the brow of a hill on the opposite 
side of the Hudson, many of the old folks, even at the present 
day, speak English ^Adth an accent, and the Dominie preaches 
in Dutch ; and so completely is the hereditary love of quiet and 
silence maintained, that in one of these drowsy villages, in the 
middle of a warm summer's day, the buzzing of a stout blue- 
bottle fly will resound from one end of the place to the other. 

With the laudable hereditary feeling thus kept up among 
these worthy people, did Mr. Knickerbocker undertake to 
write a history of his native city, comprising the reign of its 
three Dutch governors during the time that it was yet under the 
domination of the Hogenmogens of Holland. In the ex;ecution 
of this design, the httle Dutchman has displayed great histori- 
cal reseai'ch, and a wonderful consciousness of the dignity of 
his subject. His work, however, has been so httle understood, 
as to be pronounced a mere work of humour, satirizing the fol- 
lies of the times, both in pohtics and morals, and givmg whim- 
sical views of human nature. 

Be this as it may : — among the papers left behind hmi were 
several tales of a lighter nature, apparently thrown together 
from materials which he had gathered during his profound 
researches for his history, and which he seems to have cast by 
with neglect, as unworthy of pubhcation. Some of these have 
fallen into my hands, by an accident which it is needless at 
present to mention ; and one of these very stories, with its pi-e- 
lude in the words of Mr. Knickerbocker, I undertook to read, 
by way of acquitting myself of the debt which I owed to the 
other story-tellers at the Hall. I subjoin it, for such of my 
readers as are fond of stories.* 



* I find that, the tale of Rip Van Winlde, given m the Sketch-Book, has been dis- 
covered by divers writers in magazines to have been founded on a httle German 
tradition, and the matter has been revealed to tlie world as if it were a foul 
instance of plagiarism marvellously brought to light. In a note which follows 
that tale, I had alluded to the superstition <m which it was founded, and I thought 
a mere allusion was sufficient, as the trarlition was so notorious as to be inserted 
in almost every collection of German legends. I had seen it myself in three. I 
could hardly have hoped, therefore, in the present age, when every source of ghost 
and goblin story is ransacked, that the origin of the tale would escape discovery. 
In fact, I had considered popular traditions of the kind as fair foundations for au- 
thors of fiction to build upon, and made use of the one in question accordingly. I 



254 bragebbidqe; hall. 

TKE HAUNTED HOUSE. 

mOM THE MSS. OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER. 

Formerly, almost every place had a house of this kind. K a house was seated on 
some melancholy place, or built in some old romantic manner, or if any particular 
accident had happened in it, such as murder, sudden death, or the like, to be 
sure that house had a mark set upon it, and was afterwards esteemed the habita- 
tion of a ghost. — Bourne's Antiquities. 

In the neighbourhood of the ancient city of the Manhattoes, 
there stood, not very many years since, an old mansion, 
which, when I was a hoy, went by the name of the Haunted 
House. It was one of the very few remains of the architecture 
of the early Dutch settlers, and must have been a house of 
some consequence at the time when it was built. It consisted 
of a centre and two wings, the gable-ends of which were shaped 
like stairs. It was built partly of wood, and partly of small 
Dutch bricks, such as the worthy colonists brought with them 
from Holland, before they discovered that bricks could be man- 
ufactured elsewhere. The house stood remote from the road, 
in the centre of a large field, with an avenue of old locust * 
trees leading up to it, several of which had been shivered by 
lightning, and two or three blown down. A few apple-trees 
grew straggling about the field; there were traces also of what 
had been a kitchen-garden ; but the fences were broken down, 
the vegetables had disappeared, or had grown wild, and turned 
to httle better than weeds, with here and there a ragged rose- 
bush, or a taU sunflower shooting up from among brambles, 
and hanging its heo.d sorrowfully, as if contemplating the sur- 
rounding desolation. Part of the roof of the old house had 
fallen in, the windows were shattered, the panels of the doors 
broken, and mended with rough boards ; and there were two 
rusty weathercocks at the ends of the house, which made a 
great jingling and whistling' as they whirled about, but always 
pointed wi'ong. The appearance of the whole place was forlorn 
and desolate, at the best of times ; but, in unruly weather, the 
howhng of the Avind about the crazy old mansion, the screech- 
am not disposed to contest the matter, however, and indeed consider myself so com- 
pletely overpaid by the public for my trivial performances, that I am content to 
submit to any deduction, which, in their after-thoughts, they may think proper to 
make. 

*,Acacias. 



THE HAUNTED HOUSE, 255 

ing of the weathercocks, the slamming and banging of a few 
loose window-shutters, had altogether so wild and dreary an 
•effect, that the neighbourhood stood perfectly in awe of the- 
place, and pronounced i^ the rendezvous of hobgoblins. I 
recollect the old building well; for I remember how many 
times, when an idle, unlucky, urchin, I have prowled round its 
precincts, with some of my graceless companions, on holiday 
afternoons, when out on a freebooting cruise among the 
orchards. There was a tree standing near the house, that bore 
the most beautiful and tempting f iniit ; but then it was on 
enchanted ground, for the place was so charmed by f rightfid 
stories that we dreaded to approach it. Sometimes we would 
venture in a body, and get near the Hesperian tree, keeping an 
eye upon the old mansion, and darting fearful glances into its 
shattered window ; when, just as we were about to seize upon 
our prize, an exclamation from some one of the gang, or an 
accidental noise, would throw us all into a panic, and we would 
scamper headlong from the place, nor stop until we had got 
quite into the road. Then there were sure to be a host of fear- 
ful anecdotes told of strange cries and groans, or of some 
hideous face suddenly seen staring out of one of the windows. 
By degrees we ceased to venture into these lonely gi'ounds, 
but would stand at a distance and throw stones at the build- 
ing; and there was sometMng fearfully pleasing in the sound, 
as they rattled along the roof, or sometimes struck some jing- 
ling fragments of glass out of the windows. 

The origin of this house was lost in the obscurity that covers 
the early period of the province, while under the government of 
their high mightinesses the states-general. Some reported it to 
have been a country residence of Wilhelmus Kieft, commonly 
called the Testy, one of the Dutch governors of New- Amster- 
dam ; others said that it had been built by a naval commander 
who served under Van Tromp, and who, on being disappointed 
of preferment, retired from the service in disgust, became a 
philosopher through sheer spite, and brought over all his 
wealth to the province, that he might live according to his 
humour, and despise the world. The reason of its having 
fallen to decay, was likewise a matter of dispute ; some said 
that it was in chancery, and had already cost more than its 
worth in legal expenses ; but the most current, and, of course, 
the most probable account, was that it was haunted, and that 
nobody could live quietly in it. There can, in fact, be very 
little- doubt that this last was the case, there were so many 



256 *' BRACEBBIDQE HALL. 

corroborating stories to prove it,— not an old woman in the 
!Qeiglibourhood but could furnish at least a score. There was a 
gray-headed curmudgeon of a negro that hved hard by, who 
had a whole budget of them to tell, maay of wliich had happened 
to himself. I recoUect-many a time stopping with my school- 
mates, and getting him to relate some. • The old crone lived in 
a hovel, in the midst of a small patch of potatoes and Indian 
com, which his master had given him on setting him free. 
He would come to us, with his hoe in his hand, and as we sat 
perched, hke aj'ow of swallows, on the rail of the fence, in the 
mellow twilight of a summer evening, he would teU us such 
fearful stories, accompanied by such awful rollings of his 
white eyes, that we were almost afraid of our own footsteps as 
we returned home afterwards in the dark. 

Poor old Pompey ! many years are past since he died, and 
went to keep company with the ghosts he was /o fond of talk- 
mg about. He was buried in a corner of his own little potato- 
patch ; the plough soon passed over his grave, and levelled it 
with the rest of the field, and nobody thought any mere of the 
gray-headed negro. By a singular chance, I was strolling in that 
neighbourhood several years afterwards, when I had grown 
up to be a young man, and I found a knot of gossips speculating 
on a skull which had just been turned up by a ploughshare. 
They of course determined it to be the remains of some one that 
had been murdered, and they had raked up with it some of 
the traditionary tales of the haunted house. I knew it at once 
to be the relic of poor Pompey, but I held my tongue ; for I 
am too considerate of other people's enjoyment, ever to mar a 
story of a ghost or a murder. I took care, however, to see the 
bones of my old friend once more buried in a place where they 
were not likely to be disturbed. As I sat on the turf and 
watched the interment, I feU into a long conversation with an 
old gentleman of the neighbourhood, John Josse Vandermoere, 
a pleasant gossiping man, whose whole life was spent in hear- 
ing and telling the news of the province. He recollected old 
Pompey, and his stories about the Haunted House ; but he as- 
sured me he could give me one still more strange than any that 
Pompey had related : and on my expressing a great curiosity 
to hear it, he sat down beside me on the turf, and told the 
following tale. I have endeavoured to give it as nearly as 
possible in his words ; but it is now many years since, and I 
am grown old, and my memory is not over-good. I cannot 
therefore vouch for the language, but I am always scrupulous 
as to facts. D. K, 



DOLPU UETLIGEB, 257 



DOLPH HEYLIGER 

" I take the town of Concord, where I dwell, 
All Kilborn be luy witness, if I were not 
Begot in bashfuiness, brought np in shamefacedness. 
/ Let 'un bring a dog but to my race that can 

Zay I have beat "un, and without a vault; 
Or but a cat will swear upon a book, 
I have as much as zet a vire her tail. 
And I'll give liim or her a crown for 'mends."— Tuie of a Tub. 

In the early time of the province of New- York, while it 
groaned under the tyranny of the English governor, Lord 
Cornbury, who caiTied his cruelties towards the Dutch inhabi- 
tants so far as to allow no Doniinie, or schoolmaster, to officiate 
in then* language, without his special license ; about this time, 
there lived in the jolly Uttle old city of the Manhattoes, a kind 
motherly dame, known by the name of Dame Heyliger. She 
was the widow of a Dutch sea-captain, who died suddenly of a 
fever, in consequence of working too hard, and eating too 
heartily, at the time when all the inhabitants turned out in a 
panic, to fortify the place against the invasion of a small 
French privateer.* He left her with very little money, and one 
infant son, the only survivor of several children. Tlie good 
^woman had need of much management, to ma.ke both ends 
meet, and keep up a decent appearance. However, as her hus- 
band had fallen a victim to his zeal for the public cafety, it 
vras universally agreed that " something ought to be done for, 
the widow;" and on the hopes of this "something"' she lived 
tolerably for some years ; in the meantime, every body pitied 
and spoke well of her ; and that helped along. 

She lived in a small house, in a small street, called Garden- 
street, very probably from a garden which may have flourished 
there some time or other. As her necessities every year grew 
greater, and the talk of the public about doing " something for 
her" grew less, she had to cast about for some mode of doing 
something for herself, by way of helping out her slender means, 
and maintaining her indeiDcndence, of v/hich she v/as som.ewhat 
tenacious. 

Living in a mercantile town, she had caught sometliing of 
the spirit, and determined to venture a Uttle in the great lot- 

* 1705. 



358 BRACEBRIDGVu HALL. 

tery of commerce. On a sudden, therefore, to the great sur- 
prise of the street, there appeared at her window a grand array 
of gingerbread kings and queens, with their arms stuck 
a-kimbo, after the invariable royal manner. There were also 
several broken tumblers, some filled with sugar-plums, some 
with marbles; there were, moreover, cakes of various kinds, 
and barley sugar, and Holland dolls, and wooden horses, with , 
here and there gilt-c5vered picture-books, and now and then a 
skein of thread, or a dangling pound of candles. At the door 
of the house sat the good old dame's cat, a decent demure-look- 
ing personage, that seemed to scan every body that passed, to 
criticise their dress, and now and then to stretch her neck, 
and look out with sudden curiosity ,^ to see what was going on 
at the other end of the street; but if by chance any idle vaga- 
bond dog came by, and offered to be uncivil— hoity-toity !— how 
she would bristle up, and growl, and spit, and strike out her 
paws! she was as indignant as ever was an*ancient and ugly 
spinster, on the approach of some graceless profligate. 

But though the good woman had to come down to these 
humble means of subsistence, yet she stiU kept up a feeling of 
family pride, having descended from the Vanderspiegels, of 
Atnsterdam ; and she had the family arms painted and framed, 
and hung over her mantel-piece. She was, in truth, much re- 
spected by all the poorer people of the place ; her house was 
quite a resort of the old wives of the neighbourhood ; they would 
drop in there of a winter's afternoon, as she sat knitting on 
one side of her fire-place, her cat purring on the other, and the 
tea-kettle singing before it ; and they would gossip with her 
until J ate in the evening. There was always an arm-chair for 
Peter de Groodt, sometimes called Long Peter, and sometimes 
Peter Longlegs, the clerk and sexton of the little Lutheran 
church, who was her great crony, and indeed the oracle of her 
fire-side. Nay, the Dominie himself did not disdain, now and 
then, to step in, converse about the state of her mind, and take 
a glass of her special good cherry-brandy Indeed, he never 
failed to call on new-year's day, and wish her a happy new 
year; and the good dame, who was a little vain on some points, 
always piqued herself on giving him as large a cake as any one 
in town. 

I have said that she had one son.- He was the child of her 
old age ; but could hardly be called the comf ort-^f or, of all un- 
lucky urchins, Dolph Heyliger was the most mischievous. 
Not that the whipster was really vicious; he was only full of 



DOLril IIKYLIGEU. 250 

fun and frolic, and had that daring, gamesome spirit, which is 
extolled in a rich man's child, but execrated in a poor man's. 
He was continually getting into scrapes : his mother was in- 
cessantly harassed with complaints of some waggish pranks 
which he had played off ; bills were sent in for windows that he 
had broken ; in a word, he had not reached liis fourteenth year 
before he was pronounced, by all the neighbourhood, to be a 
' ' wicked dog, the wickedest dog in the street !" Nay, one old 
gentleman, in a claret-coloured coat, with a tliin red face, and 
ferret eyes, went so far as to assure Dame Heyliger, that her 
son would, one day or other, come to the gallows ! 

Yet, notwithstanding all this, the poor old soul loved 'her 
boy. It seemed as though she loved him the better, the worse 
he behaved ; and that fie grew more in her favour, the more he 
grew out of favour with the world. Mothers are foolish, fond- 
hearted beings ; there's no reasoning them out of their dotage ; 
and, indeed, tliis poor woman's child was all that was left to 
love her in this world ; — so we must not tlimk it hard that she 
turned a deaf ear to her good friends, who sought to prove to 
her that Dolph would come to a halter. 

To do the varlet justice, too, he was strongly attached to his 
parent. He would not Avillingly have given her pain on any 
account ; and when he had been doing wrong, it was but for 
him to catch his poor mother's eye fixed wistfully and sorrow- 
fully upon him, to fill Ms heart with bitterness and contrition. 
But he was a heedless youngster, and could not, for the life of 
him, resist any new temptation to fun and mischief. Though 
quick at his learnmg, whenever he could be brought to apply 
himself, yet he was always prone to be led away by idJe com- 
pany, and would play truant to hunt after birds'-nests, to rob 
orchards, or to swim in the Hudson. 

In this way he grew up, a tall, lubberly boy ; and his mother 
began to be greatly perplexed what to do with him, or how to 
put him in a way to do for himself; for he had acquired such 
an unlucky reputation, that no one seemed ^villing to employ 
him. 

Many were the consultations that she held with Peter de 
Groodt, the clerk and sexton, who was her prime counsellor. 
Peter was as much perplexed as herself, for he had no great 
opinion of the boy, and thought he would never come to prood. 
He at one time advised her to send him to sea — a piece of advice 
only given in the most desperate cases; but Dame Heyliger 
would not Hsten to such an idea ; she could not think of letting 



260 BRACEBRIDCK JIALL. 

Doiph go out of her sight. She was sitting one day knitting 
by her fireside, in great perplexity, when the sexton entered 
with an air of unusual vivacity and briskness. He had just 
come from a funeral. It had been that of a boy of Dolph's 
years, who had been apprentice to a famous German doctor, 
and had died of a consumption. It is true, there had been a 
whisper that the deceased had been brought to his end by being 
made the subject of the doctor's experiments, on which he was 
apt to try the effects of a new compound, or a quieting draught. 
This, however, it is hkely, was a mere scandal; at any rate, 
Peter de Groodt did not think it worth mentioning ; though, 
had we time to philosophize, it would be a curious matter for 
speculation, why a doctor's family is apt to be so lean and 
cadaverous, and a butcher's so jolly and rubicund. 

Peter de Groodt, as I said before, entered the house of Dame 
Heyliger, with imusuai alacrity. He was fuU of a bright idea 
that had popped into his head at the funeral, and over which 
he had chuckled as he shovelled the earth into the grave of the 
doctor's disciple. It had occurred to him, that, as the situation 
of the deceased was vacant at the doctor's, it would be the very 
place for Dolph. The boy had parts, and could pound a pestle 
and run an errand mth any boy in the town— and what more 
was wanted in a student? 

The suggestion of the sage Peter was a vision of glory to the 
mother. She already saw Dolph, in her mind's eye, with a 
cane at his nose, a knocker at his door, and an M. D. at the end 
of his name— one of the established dignitaries of the town. 

The matter, once undertaken, was soon effected ; the sexton 
had some influence with the doctor, they having had much 
dealing together in the way of their separate professions ; and 
the very next morning he caUed and conducted the urchin, 
clad in his Smiday clothes, to undergo the inspection of Dr. 
Karl Lodovick Knipperhausen. 

They found the doctor seated in an elbow-chair, in one corner 
of his study, or laboratory, with a large volume, in German 
print, before him. He was a short, fat man, wfth a dark, 
square face, rendered more dark by a black velvet cap. He 
had a little, knobbed nose, not unlil^e tlie ace of spades, with a 
pair of spectacles gleaming on each side of his dusky counte- 
nance, like a couple of bow- windows. 

Dolph felt struck with awe, on entering into the presence of 
this learned man ; and gazed about him v/fth boyish v^onder at 
the furniture of this chamber of knowledge, which appeared 



DOLPH UEYLIGER. 261 

to him almost as the den of a magician. In the centre stood a 
claw-footed table, with pestle and mortar, phials and gallipots, 
and a pair of small, burnished scales. At one end was a heav;^^ 
clothes-press, turned into a receptacle for drugs and compounds; 
against w^hicli hung the doctor's hat and cloak, and gold-headed 
cane, and on the top grinned a human skull. Along the mantel- 
piece were glass vessels, in which were snakes and lizards, and 
a human foetus preserved in spirits. A closet, the doors of 
which were taken off, contained tln-ee whole shelves of books, 
and some, too, of mighty foho dimensions— a collection, the 
like of which Dolph had never before beheld. As, however, 
the library did not take up the whole of the closet, the doctor's 
thrifty housekeeper had occupied the rest with pots of pickles 
and preserves; and had hung about the room, among awful 
implements of the heahng art, strings of red pepper and cor- 
pulent cucumbers, carefully preserved for seed. 

Peter de Groodt, and liis protege, were received with great 
gravity and stateliness by the doctor, who was a very wise, 
dignified little man, and never smiled. He surveyed Dolph 
from head to foot, above, and under, and through his spectacles ; 
and the poor lad's heart quailed as these great glasses glared on 
him like two full moons. The doctor heard all that Peter de 
Groodt had to say in favour of the youthful candidate ; and 
then, wetting his thumb with the end of his tongue, he began 
deliberately to turn over page after page of the great black 
volume before him. At length, after many hums and haws, 
and strokings of the chin, and all that hesitation and delibera- 
tion with which a wise man proceeds to do what he intended to 
do from the very first, the doctor agreed to take the lad as a 
disciple ; to give him bed, board, and clothing, and to instruct 
him in the healing art ; in return for which, he was to have his 
services until his twenty-first year. 

Behold, then, our hero, all at once transformed from an 
unlucky urchin, running wild about the streets, to a student 
of medicine, diligently pounding a pestle, under the auspices of 
the learned Doctor Karl Lodovick Knipperhausen. It wa^ a 
hcippy transition for his fond old mother. She was delighted 
with the idea of her boy's being brought up worthy of his 
ancestors ; and anticipated the day when he would be able to 
hold up his head with the lawyer, that lived in the large house 
opposite ; or, peradventure, with the Dominic himself. 

Doctor Knipperhausen was a native of the Palatinate of Ger- 
many ; from whence, in company with many of his countrymen, 



262 BRACEBIUDGE HALL. 

lie had taken refuge in England, on account of religious perse- 
cution. He was one of nearly tin-ee thousand Palatines, who 
cfime over from England in 1710, imder the pi^otection of 
Governor Hunter. Where the doctor had studied, how he had 
acquked his medical knowledge, and where he had received 
liis diploma, it is hard at present to say, for nobody knew at 
the time ; yet it is certam that his profound skill and abstruse 
jinovdedge w^ere the talk and wonder of the common people, 
far and near. 

His practice was totally d-^fie^rent from that of any other 
physician; consistmg in my steri cms compounds, known only to 
himself, in the preparing and administering of which, it was 
said, he always consulted the stars. So high an ox)imon was 
entertained of his skill, particularly by the G-erman and Dutch 
iniiabitants, that they always resorted to him in desperate 
cases. He was one of those infalhble doctors, that are always 
effecting sudden and SLu°i)rising cures, when the patient has 
been given up by all the regular physicians; unless, as is 
shrewdly observed, the case has been left too long before it 
was put into their hands. The doctor's library was the talk 
and marvel of the neighbom^hood, I might almost say of the 
entu*e burgh. The good people looked with reverence at a man 
that had read three whole shelves full of books, and some of 
them, too, a.s large as a family Bible. There were many dis- 
putes among the members of the little Lutheran church, as to 
which was the wiser man, the doctor or the Dominie. Some 
of his admirers even went so far as to say, that he knew more 
than the governor himself — ^in a word, it was thought that 
there was no end to his knowledge ! 

No sooner was Dolph received into the doctor's family, than 
he was put in possession of the lodging of his predecessor. It 
was a garret-room of a steep-roofed Dutch house, where the 
rain patted on the shingles, and the lightning gleamed, and the 
wind piped through _the crannies in stormy weather; and 
where whole troops of'^hungry rats, like Don Cossacks, galloped 
about in defiance of traps and ratsbane. 

He was soon up to his ears in medical studies, being employed, 
morning, noon, and night, in rolling pills, filtering tinctures, 
or pounduig the pestle and mortar, in one corner of the labora- 
tory ; while the doctor would take his seat in another corner, 
when he had nothing else to do, or expected visitoi^, and, 
arrayed in liis morning-gown and velvet cap, would pore over 
tlie contents of some folio volume. It is true, that the regular 



DOW II IIFALIGKU. 2G3 

thniLiping of Dolph's pestle, or, perhaps, the drowsy buzzing of 
tlie sunimer flies, would now and then lull the little man into a 
slumber; but then liis spectacles were always wide awake, and 
studiously regarding the book. 

There was another personage in the house, however, to whom 
Dolph was obliged to pay allegiance. Though a bachelor, and 
a man of such great dignity and importance, yr t the doctor 
was, Uke many other wise men, subject to petticoat govern- 
ment. He was completely under the sway of his housekeeper ; 
a spare, busy, fretting housewife, jn a little, round, quilted, 
German cap, with a huge bunch of keys jingling at the girdle 
of an exceedingly long waist. Frau Ike (or Frow Ilsy, as it 
was pronounced) had accompanied him in his various migra- 
tions from Germany to England, and from England to the 
province ; managing his establishment and himself too : ruhng 
him, it is true, with a gentle hand, but carrying a high hand 
with all the world beside. How she had acquired such ascen- 
dency, I do not pretend to say. People, it is true, did talk— 
but have not people been prone to talk ever since the world 
began? "WTio can tell how women generally contrive to get the 
upi^er hand? A husband, it is true, may now and then be 
master in his own house ; but who ever knew a bachelor that 
was not managed by his housekeeper? 

Indeed, Frau Ilsy's power was not confined to the doctor's 
household. She was one of those prying gossips that know 
every one's business better than they do themselves ; and whose 
all-seeing eyes, and all-telling tongues, are terrors throughout 
a neighbourhood. 

Nothing of any moment transpired in the world of scandal of 
this httle burgh, but it was known to Frau Ilsy. She had her 
crew of cronies, that were perpetually hurrj-ing to her httle 
l^arlour, with some precious bit of news ; nay, she would some- 
times discuss a whole volume of secret history, as she held the 
street-door ajar, and gossiped -with one of these garrulous 
cronies in the very teeth of a December blast. 

Between the doctor and the housekeeper, it may easily be 
supposed that Dolph had a busy life of it. As Frau Hsy kept 
the keys, and literally ruled the roast, it was starvation to 
offend her, though he found the study of her temper more per- 
plexing even than that of medicine. When not busy in the 
laboratory, she kept him nimiing hither and thither on her 
errands ; and on Sundays ho was obliged to accompany her to 
and from church, and carry her Bible. l^.Iany a time has the 



264 BllAGEBIUDGE HALL. 

poor varlet stood shivering and blowing his fingers, or holding 
his frost-bitten nose, in the church-yard, while Ilsy and her 
cronies were huddled together, wagging their heads, and tear- 
ing some unlucky character to pieces. 

With all his advantages, hov/ever, Dolph made very slow 
progress in his art. This was no fault of the doctor's, certainly, 
for he took unwearied pains ^vith the lad, keeping him close to 
the pestle and mortar, or on the trot about town with phials 
and pill-boxes ; and if he ever flagged in his industry, Vv^hich he 
was rather apt to do, the doctor would fly mto a passion, and 
ask him if he ever expected to learn his profession, uifless he 
applied himself closer to the study. The fact is, he stfll retained 
the fondness for sport and naischief that had marked his child- 
hood ; the habit, indeed, had strengthened with his years, and 
gained force from being thwarted and constrained. He daily 
gi-ew more and more imtractable, and lost favour in the eyes 
both of the doctor and the housekeeper. 

In the meantime the doctor went on, waxing wealthy and 
renowned. He was famous for his skill m managing cases not 
laid down in the books. He had cured several old women and 
young girls of witchcraft; a terrible complaint, nearly as 
prevalent in the province in those days as hydrophobia is at 
present. He had even restored one strapping country girl to 
perfect health, who had gone so far as to vomit crooked pins 
and needles; which is considered a desperate stage of the 
malady. It was whispered, also, that he was possessed of the 
art of preparing love-powders ; and many appMcations had he 
in consequence from love-sick patients of both sexes. But aU 
these cases formed the mysterious part of his practice, in which, 
according to the cant phrase, " secrecy and honour might be 
depended on." Dolph, therefore, was obhged to turn out of 
the study whenever such consultations occurred, though it is 
said he learnt more of the secrets of the art at the key-hole, 
than by aU. the rest of his studies put together. 

As the doctor increased in wealth, he began to extend his 
possessions, and to look forward, like other great men, to the 
time when he should retire to the repose of a country-seat. For 
this purpose he had purchased a farm, or, as the Dutch settlers 
called it, a boiverie, a few miles from town. It had been the 
residence of a wealthy family, that had returned some time 
since to Holland. A large mansion-house stood in the centre of 
it, very much out of repair, and which, in consequence of cer- 
tain reports, had received the appellation of the Haunted 



DOLPII llhJYUUKU. 'Z^o 

House. Either from these reports, or from its actual dreariness, 
the doctor had found it impossible to get a tenant ; and, that 
the place might not fall to ruin before he could reside in it him- 
self, he had placed a country boor, with his family, in one wing, 
with the privilege of cultivating the fai'm on shares. 

The doctor now felt aU the dignity of a landholder rising 
witliin him. He had a little of the German pride of territory 
in Ms composition, and ahnost looked upon himself as owner 
of a principality. He began to complain of the fatigue of busi- 
ness; and was fond of riding out "to look at his estate." His 
Httle expeditions to his lands were attended with a bustle and 
parade that created a sensation throughout the neighbourhood. 
His wall-eyed horse stood, stamping and whisking off the flies, 
for a full hour before the house. Then the doctor's saddle-bags 
would be brought out and adjusted ; then, after a little while, 
his cloak would be rolled up and strapped to the saddle ; then 
his umbrella would be buckled to the cloak; while, in the 
meantime, a group of ragged boys, that observant class of 
beings, would gather before the door. At length, the doctor 
would issue forth, in a pair of jack-boots that rcEiched above 
his knees, and a cocked hat flapped down in front. As he was a 
short, fat man, he took some time to mount into the saddle ; 
and when there, he took some time to have the saddle and 
stirrups properly adjusted, enjoying the wonder and admira- 
tion of the urcliin crowd. Even after he had set off, he would 
pause in the middle of the street, or trot back two or three 
times to give some parting orders ; which were answered by 
the housekeeper from the door, or Dolph from the study, or 
the black cook from the cellar, or the chambermaid from the 
garret- window ; and there were generally some last words 
bawled after him, just as he was turning the corner. 

The whole neighbourhood would be aroused by this pomp and 
circumstance. The cobbler would leave his last; the barber 
would thrust out his frizzed head, with a comb sticking in ii;; 
a knot would collect at the grocer's door ; and the word would 
be buzzed from one end of the street to the other, " The doctor's 
riding out to his countiy-seat!" 

These were golden moments for Dolph. No sooner was the 
doctor out of sight, than pestle and mortar were abandoned ; 
the laboratory was left to take care of itself, and the student 
was off on some madcap frolic. 

Indeed, it must be confessed, the youngster, as he grew up, 
seemed in a fair way to fulfil the prediction of the old claret- 



266 BRACEBRIBGE IT ALL. 

coloured gentleman. He was the ringleader of all holiday 
sports, and midnight gambols ; ready for all kinds of miscliiev- 
ous pranks, and harebrained adventures. 

There is nothing so troublesome as a hero on a small scale, 
or, rather, a hero in a small town. Dolph soon became the ab- 
horrence of all drowsy, housekeeping old citizens, who hated 
noise, and had no relish for waggery. The good dames, too, 
considered him as httle better thnn a reprobate, gathered their 
daughters imder their wings whenever he approached, and 
pointed him out as a warning to their sons. No one seemed to 
hold hhn in much regard, excepting the wild striplings of the 
place, who were captivated by his open-hearted, daring man- 
ners, and the negroes, who always look upon every idle, do- 
nothing youngster as a kind of gentleman. Even the good 
Peter de Groodt, who had considered himself a kind of patron 
of the lad, began to despair of him ; and would shake his head 
dubiously, as he listened to a long complaint from the house- 
keeper, and sipped a glass of her raspberry brandy. 

Still his mother was not to be wearied out of her affection, 
by all the waywardness of her boy ; nor disheartened by the 
stories of liis misdeeds, with which her good friends were con- 
tinually regahng her. She had,, it is true, very little of the 
pleasure which rich people enjoy, in always hearing theu^ chil- 
dren praised ; but she considered all this ill-will as a kind of 
persecution which he suffered, and she hked him the better on 
that account. She saw him gi'owing up, a fine, tall, good-look- 
ing youngster, and she looked at hun with the secret pride of a 
mother's heart. It was her great desire that Dolph should 
appear hke a gentleman, and all the money she could save 
went towards helping out his pocket and his wardrobe. She 
would look out of the window after him, as he saUied forth in 
his best array, and her heart would yearn with delight ; and 
once, when Peter de Groodt, struck with the youngster's 
gallant appearance on a bright Sunday morning, observed, 
"Well, after all, Dolph does grow a comely fellow !" the tear 
of pride started into the mother's eye: " Ah, neighbour! neigh- 
bour!" exclaimed she, "they may say what they please; poor 
Doiph will yet hold up his head with the best of them." 

Dolph Heyliger had now nearly attained his one-and-twenti- 
eth year, and the term of his medical studies was just expiring ; 
yet it must be confessed that he knew httle more of the pro- 
fession than when he first entered the doctor's doors. This, 
however, could not be from want of quickness of parts, for heii 



DOLPU IlEYLIGER. 2(57 

showed amazing aptness in mastering other branches of knowl- 
edge, which he could only have studied at intervals. He was, 
for instance, a sure niarl^sman, and won all the geese and 
turkeys at Christmas holidays. He was a bold rider ; he was 
famous for leaping and wrestling ; he played tolerably on the 
fiddle ; could swim hke a fish ; and was the best hand in the 
whole place at fives or nine-j^ins. 

All these accomplishments, however, procured him no favour 
m the eyes of the doctor, who grew more and more crabbed 
and intolerant, the nearer the term of apprenticeship ap- 
proached. Frau Ilsy, too, was for evej' finding some occasion 
to raise a windy tempest about his ears ; and seldom encoun- 
tered him about the house, without a clatter of the tongue; so 
that at length the jingling of her keys, as she approached, was 
to Dolph like the ringing of the prompter's bell, that gives 
notice of a theatrical thunder-storm. Nothing but the infinite 
good-humour of the heedless youngster, enabled him to bear all 
this domestic tyranny without open rebellion. It was evident 
that the doctor and his housekeeper were preparing to beat the 
poor you oil out of the nest, the moment his term should have 
. expired ; a shorthand mode which the doctor had of providing 
for useless disciples. 

Indeed, the little man had been rendered more than usually 
irritable lately, in consequence of various cares and vexations 
which his country estate had brought upon him. The doctor 
had been repeatedly annoyed by the rumours and tales which 
prevailed concerning the old mansion: and found it difficult to 
prevail even upon the countiyman and his family to remain 
there rent-free. Every time he rode out to the farm, he was 
teased by some fresh complaint of strange noises and fearful 
sights, with which the tenants were disturbed at night; and 
the doctor woidd come home fretting and fuming, and vent his 
spleen upon the whole household. It was indeed a sore griev- 
ance, that affected him both in pride and purse. He was 
threatened with an absolute loss of the profits of his property ; 
and then, what a blow to his territorial consequence, to be the 
landlord of a haunted house ! 

It was observed, however, that with all his vexation, the 
doctor never jiroposed to sleep in the house himself ; nay, he 
could never be prevailed upon to remain in the premises after 
dark, but made the best of his way for town, as soon as the 
bats began to flit about in the twilight. The fact was, the doc- 
tor had a secret belief in ghosts, 'having passed the early part 



208 bracebhidge hall. 

of his life in a country where they particularly abound ; and 
indeed the story went, that, when a boy, he had once seen the 
devil upon the Hartz mountains in Germany. 

At length, the doctor's vexations on this head were brought 
to a crisis. One morning, as he sat dozing over a volume in 
his study, he was suddenly started from his slumbers by the 
bustling in of the housekeeper. 

"Here's a line to do!" cried she, as she entered the room, 
"Here's Glaus Hopper come in, bag and baggage, from the 
farm, and swear's he'll have nothing more to do with it. The 
whole family have been frightened out of their wits ; for there's 
such racketing and rummaging about the old house, that they 
can't sleep quiet in their beds !" 

" Donner und blitzen !" cried the doctor, impatiently; "will 
they never have done chattering about that house? Y/hat a 
pack of fools, to let ci few rats and mice frighten them out of 
good quarters !" 

" Nay, nay," said the housekeeper, wag.ging her head know- 
ingly, and piqued at having a good ghost story doubted, 
"there's more m. it than rats and mice. All the neighbour- 
hood talks about the house ; and then such sights have been 
seen in it ! Peter de Groodt tells me, that the family that sold 
you the house and went to Holland, dropped several strange 
hints about it, and said, ' they wished you joy of your bargain; ' 
and you know yourself there's no getting any family to live 
in it." 

"Peter de Groodt's a ninny — an old woman," said the doctor, 
peevishly; " Pll warrant he's been filling these people's heads 
full of stories. It's just like his nonsense about the ghost that 
haunted the church belfry, as an excuse for not ringing the 
bell that cold night when Harmanus Brinkerhoff' s house was 
on fire. Send Glaus to me." 

Glaus Hopper now made his appearance : a simple country 
lout, full of awe at finding himseK in the very study of Dr. 
Knipperhausen, and too much embarrassed to enter into much 
detail of the matters that had caused his alarm. He stood 
twirling his hat in one hand, resting sometimes on one leg, 
sometimes on the other, looking occasionally at the doctor, and 
now and then stealing a fearful glance at the death's-head that 
seemed ogling him from the top of the clothes-press. 

The doctor tried every means to persuade him to return to 
the farm, but all in vain ; he maintained a dogged determina- 
tion on the subject; and at the close of every argument or 



DOLPH llEYLICThm. 2G9 

solicitation, would make the same brief , inflexible reply, "Ich 
kan nicht, mynheer." The doctor was a "little pot, and soon 
hot ;" his patience was exhausted by these continual vexations 
about his estate. The stubborn refusal of Claus Hopper seemed 
to him like flat rebellion ; his temper suddenly boiled over, and 
Claus was glad to make a rapid retreat to escape scalding. 

When the bumpkin got to the housekeeper's room, he found 
Peter de Groodt, and several other true believers, ready to 
receive him. Here he indemnified himself for the restraint he 
had suffered in the study, and opened a budget of stories about 
the haunted house that astonished all his hearers. The house- 
keeper believed them all, if it was only to spite the doctor for 
having received her intelligence so uncourtcously. Peter de 
Groodt matched them with many a wonderful legend of the 
times of the Dutch dynasty, and of the Devil's Stepping-stones ; 
and of the pirate that was hanged at Gibbet Island, and con- 
tinued to swing there at night long after the gallows was taken 
down ; and of the ghost of the unfortunate G overnor Leisler, 
who was hanged for treason, which haunted the old fort and 
the government house. The gossiping knot dispersed, each 
charged with direful inteUigence. The sexton disburdened 
himself at a vestry meeting that was held that very day, and 
the black cook forsook her kitchen, and spent half the day at 
the street pmnp, that gossiping place of seiwants, dealing forth 
the news to all that came for water. In a little time, the whole 
town was in a buzz with tales about the. haunted house. Some 
said that Claus Hopper had seen the devil, while others hinted 
that the house was haunted by the ghosts of some of the 
patients whom the doctor had physicked out of the world, and 
that was the reason why he did not venture to live in it him- 
self. 

AH this put the little doctor in a terrible fume. He threat- 
ened vengeance on any one who should affect the value of his 
property by exciting popular prejudices. He complained 
loudly of thus being in a manner dispossessed of his territories 
by mere bugbears; but he secretly determined to have the 
house exorcised by the Dominie. Great was his relief, there- 
fore, when, in the midst of his perplexities, Dolph stepped 
forward and undertook to garrison the haunted house. The 
youngster had been listening to all the stories of Claus Hopper 
and Peter de Groodt: he was fond of adventure, he loved the 
ma,rvellous, and his imagination had become quite excited by 
these tales of wonder. Besides, he had led such an uneomfort- 



270 BRAGEBRIDGE HALL. 

vMq life at the doctor's, being subjected to the intolerable 

tiiraldom of early hours, that he was delighted at the prospect 
o£ having a house to himself, even though it should be a 
haunted one. His offer was eagerly accepted, and it was de- 
termined that he should mount guard that very night. His 
only stipidation v/as, that the enterprise should be kept secret 
from his mother ; for he knew the poor soul would not sleep a 
wink, if she knew that her son was waging war with the 
powers of darkness. 

When night came on, he set out on this perilous expedition. 
The old black cook, his only friend in the household, had pro- 
vided him with a little mess for supper, and a rushhght ; and 
she tied round his neck an amulet, given her by an African 
conjurer, as a charm against evil spirits. Doiph was escorted 
on his way by the doctor and Peter de Groodt, who hgid agreed 
to accompany him to the house, and to see him safe lodged. 
The night was overcast, and it was very dark when they 
arrived at the grounds which surrounded the mansion. The 
sexton led the way with a lantern. As they walked along the 
avenue of acacias, the fitful light, catching from bush to bush, 
and tree to tree, often startled the doughty Peter, and made 
] iim fall back upon his followers ; and the doctor grabbed still 
closer hold of Dolph's arm, observing that the ground was 
very shppery and uneven. At one time they were nearly put 
to a total rout by a bat, which came flitting about the lan- 
tern ; and the notes of the insects from the trees, and the iro^^ 
from a neighbourmg pond, formed a most drowsy and dolefiil 
concert. 

The front door of the mansion opened with a gi-ating sound, 
that made the doctor turn pale. They entered a tolerably 
large hall, such as is common in American country-houses, 
and which serves for a sitting-room in warm weather. From 
hence they went up a wide staircase, that groaned and creaked 
as they trod, every step maldng its particular note, hke the 
key of a harpsichord. Tliis led to another hall on the second 
story, from whence they entered the room where Dolph was 
to sleep. It was large, and scantily furnished; the shutters 
wQve closed ; but as they were much broken, there was no want 
of a circulation of air. It appeared to have been that sacred 
chamber, known amons: Dutch housewives by the nani.e of 
' ' the best bed-room -^ which is the best furnished room in the 
house, but in which scarce any body is ever permitted to sleep. 
Its splendour, however, was all at an end. There were a few 



nOLPll UETLIGER. 271 

broken articles of fumitiu^e about the room, and in the centre 
stood a heavy deal table and a large arm-chair, both of which 
had the look of being coeval with the mansion. The fire-placo 
was wide, and had been faced with Dutch tiles, representing 
scripture stories; but some of them had fallen out of their 
places, and lay shattered about the hearth. The sexton had lit 
the rushlight; and the doctor, looking fearfully about the 
room, was just exhorting Dolph to be of good cheer, and to 
pluck up a stout heart, when a noise in the chhnney, like 
voices and struggling, struck a sudden panic into the sexton. 
He took to his heels with the lantei-n ; the doctor followed hai d 
after him; the stairs groaned and creaked as they harried 
down, increasing their agitation and speed by its noises. The 
front door slaimned after them ; and Dolph heard them scrab- 
bhng down the avenue, till the sound of their feet was lost in 
the distance. That he did not join in this precipitate retreat, 
might have been owing to his possessing a little more courage 
than his companions, or perhaps that he had caught a glimpse 
of the cause of their dismay, in a nest of ciiimney swallows, 
that came tiunbling dovv^n into the fitc-place. 

Being now left to himself, he secured the front door by a 
strong bolt and bar ; and having seen that the other entrances 
were fastened, he returned to his desolate chamber. Having 
made his supper from the basket which the good old cook had 
provided, he locked the chamber door, and retired to rest on a 
mattress in one comer. The night was cami and still: nnd 
nothing broke upon the profound quiet but the lonely chirp iiifi; 
of a cricket from the chimney of a distant chamber. The 
rushlight, which stood in the centre of the deal table, shed a 
feeble yellow ray, dimly illumining the chamber, and making 
uncouth shapes and shadows on the walls, from the clothes 
which Dolph had thrown over a chair. 

With all his boldness of heart, there was something subduing 
in this desolate scene ; and he felt his spirits flag within him, 
as he lay on his hard bed and gazed about the room. He was 
turning over in his mind his idle habits, his doubtful prospects, 
and now and then heaving a heavy sigh, as he thought on Iiis 
poor old mother; for there is nothing like the silence and lone- 
liness of night to bring dark shadows over the brightest mind. 
By-and-by, he thought he heard a sound as if some one was 
walking below stairs. He listened, and distinctly heard a step 
on the gi-eat staircase It approached solemnly nnd slowly, 
tramp— tramp— tramp! It was evidently the tread of some 



272 BRACEBRIDGE HALL, 

he.avy personage; and yet how could he have got into the 
house without making a noise ? He had examined all the 
fastenings, and was certain that every entrance was secure. 
Still the steps advanced, tramp — ^tramp — ^tramp! It was evi- 
dent that the person approaching could not be a robber — the 
step was too loud and deliberate; a robber would either be 
stealthy or i)recipitate. And now the footsteps had ascended 
the stau-case ; they were slowly advancmg along the passage, 
resounding through the silent and empty apartments. The 
very cricket had ceased its melancholy note, and nothing 
interrupted then* awful distinctness. The door, which had 
been locked on the inside, slowly swung open, as if self -moved. 
The footsteps entered the room ; but no one was to be seen. 
They passed slowly and audibly across it, tramp — tramp — 
tramp! but whatever made the sound was invisible. Dolph 
rubbed his eyes, and stared about him ; he could see to every 
part of the dimly-lighted chamber; all was vacant; yet still 
he heard those mysterious footsteps, solemnly walking about 
the chamber. They ceased, and all was dead sUence. There 
was something more appalhng in this invisible visitation, than 
there would have been in anytliing that addressed itself to the 
eyesight. It was awfully vague and indefinite. He felt his 
heart beat against his ribs ; a cold sweat broke out upon his 
forehead ; helay for some time in a state of violent agitation ; 
nothing, however, occurred to mcrease his alarm. His light 
gradually burnt do^vn into the socket, and he fell asleep. 
Wlien he awoke it was broad dayhght; the sun was peermg 
through the cracks of the window-shutters, and the birds were 
merrily singing about the house. The bright, cheery day soon 
put to flight all the terrors of the preceding night. Dolph 
laughed, or rather tried to laugh, at all that had passed, and 
endeavoured to persuade hunself that it was a mere freak of 
the imagination, conjured up by the stories he had heard; but 
he was a little puzzled to find the door of his room locked on 
the inside, notwithstandmg that he had positively seen it 
swing open as the footsteps had entered. He returned to town 
in a state of considerable perplexity; but he determined to say 
nothing on the subject, until his doubts were either confirmed 
or removed by another night's watching. His silence was a 
grievous disappointment to the gossips who had gathered at 
the doctor's mansion. They had prepared their minds to hear 
direful tales; and they were almost in a rage at being assured 
that he had nothing to relate. 



DOLPH HEYLIGER. 273 

The next night, then, Dolph repeated his vigil. He now 
entered the house with some trepidation. He was particular 
in examining the fastenings of all the doors, and securing them 
well. He locked the door of his chamber, and placed a chair 
against it ; then, having despatched his supper, he threw him- 
self on his mattress and endeavoured to sleep. It was all in 
vain — a thousand crowding fancies kept him waking. The 
time slowly dragged on, as if nmiutes were spinning out them- 
selves into hours. As the night advanced, he grew more and 
more nervous ; and he almost started from his couch, when ho 
heard the mysterious footstep again on the staircase. Up it 
came, as before, solemnly and slowly, tramp — tramp — tramp ! 
It approached along the passage ; the door again swung open, 
as if there had been neither lock nor impediment, and a strange- 
looking figure stalked into the room. It was an elderly man, 
large and robust, clothed in the old Flemish fashion. He had 
on a kind of short cloak, with a garment under it, belted 
round the waist; trunk hose, with great bunches or bows at 
the knees; and a pair of russet boots, very large at top, and 
standing widely from his legs. His hat was broad and slouched, 
with a feather trailing over one side. His iron-gray hair hung 
in thick masses on his neck ; and he had a short grizzled beard. 
He walked slowly round the room, as if examining that all was 
safe; then, hanging his hat on a peg beside the door, he sat 
down in the elbow-chair, and, leaning his elbow on the table, 
he fixed liis eyes on Dolph with an unmoving and deadening 
stare. 

Dolph was not naturally a coward ; but he had been brought 
up in an implicit belief in ghosts and goblins. A thousand 
stories came swarming to his mind, that he had heard about 
this building ; and as he looked at this strange personage, with 
his uncouth garb, his pale visage, his grizzly beard, and his 
fixed, staring, fish-like eye, his teeth began to chatter, his hair 
to rise on his head, and a cold sweat to break out all over his 
body. How long he remained in this situation he could not 
tell, for he was like one fascinated. He could not take his gaze 
off from the spectre; but lay staring at him with liis whole 
intellect absorbed in the contemplation. The old man remained 
seated behind the table, without stirring or turning an eye, 
always keeping a dead steady glare upon Dolph. At length 
the household cock from a neighbouring farm clapped his 
wings, and gave a loud cheerful crow that rung over the fields. 
At the sound, the old man slowly rose and took down his hat 



274 BB.AGEB1UDQE HALL. 

from the peg; the door opened and closed after bim; he was 
heard to go slowly down the staircase -tramps-tramp — tramp! 
— and when he had got to the bottom, all was agam silent. 
Dolph lay and hstened earnestly; counted every footfall; 
hstened and listened if the steps should return — until, ex- 
hausted by watchin,?: and agitation, he fell into a troubled 
sleep. 

Daylight again brought fresh courage and assurance. He 
would fain have considered all that had passed as a mere 
dream ; yet there stood the chair in which the unknown had 
seated himself ; there was the table on which he had leaned ; 
there was the peg on which he had hung his hat ; and there 
was the door, locked precisely as he himself had locked it, with 
the chair placed against it. He hastened down-stairs and 
examined the doors and windows ; all v/ere exactly in the same 
state in v/hich he had left them, and there was no apparent 
way by which any being could have entered and left the house 
without leaving some trace behind. "Pooh!" said Dolph to 
himself, "it was all a dream;" — but it would not do; the more 
he endeavoured to shake the scene off from his mind, the 
more it haunted him. 

Though he i:)ersisted in a strict silence as to all that he had seen 
or heard, yet his looks betrayed the uncomfortable night that 
he had passed. It was evident that there was something won- 
derful hidden under this mysterious reserve. The doctor took 
him into the study, locked the door, and sought to have a full 
and confidential communication; but he could get nothing out 
of him. Frau Ilsy took him aside into the pantry, but to as 
httle purpose ; and Peter de Groodt held him by the button for 
a fidl hour in the church-yard, the very place to get at the 
botto3n of a ghost story, but came off not a whit wiser than the 
rest. It is always the case, hovrever, that one truth concealed 
makes a dozen current lies. It is like a guinea locked up in a 
baixk, that has a dozen paper representatives. Before the day 
was over, the neighbourhood was full of reports. Some said 
that Dolph Heyliger watched in the haunted house with pistols 
loaded with silver buUets ; others, that he had a long talk with 
the spectre without a head ; others, that Doctor Knipperhausen 
and the sexton had been hunted dovvn the Bovv^ery lane, and 
quite into town, by a legion of ghosts of their customers. Some 
shook their heads, and thought it a shame that the doctor 
should put Dolph to pass the night alone in that dismal house, 
where he might be spirited away, no one" knew whither -. while 



1)0 hPn UKYIAGVAI. 275 

othei*s observed, with a shrug, that if the devH did carry off 
the youngster, it would be but taking his own. 

These rumoui-s at length reached the ears of the good Dame 
Heyliger, and, as may be supposed, threw her into a terrible 
alarm. For her son to have opposed himself to danger from 
liviug foes, would have been nothing so dreadful in her eyes as 
to dare alone the terrors of the haunted house. She hastened 
to the doctor's, and passed a great part of the day in attempt- 
ing to dissuade Dolph from repeating his vigil ; she told him a 
score of tales, which her gossiping friends had just related to 
her, of pei-sons who had been carried off when watching alone 
in old ruinous houses. It was all to no effect. Dolph 's pride, 
as well as curiosity, was piqued. He endeavoured to calm the 
apprehensions of his mother, and to assure her that there was . 
no truth in all the rumours she had heard ; slie looked at him 
dubiously-, and shook her head ; but findint;- his determination 
was not to be shaken, she brought him a little thick Dutch Bible, 
with brass clasps, to take with him, as a sword where-with to 
fight the powers of darkness ; and, lest that might not be suffi- 
cient, the housekeej)er gave him the Heideiburgh cateciiism by 
way of dagger. 

The next night, therefore, Dolph took up his quarters for the 
third time in the old mansion. WJiether dream or not, the 
same thing was relocated. Towards midnight, when every 
thi.ng was still, the same round eclioed tlu'ough the empty 
halls— tvonip— tramp— tramp I The stairs were again ascended ; 
the door again swung open ; the old man entered, walked round 
the i-oom, hung up his hat, and seated himself by the table. 
The same fear and trembling cam.c over poor Dolph, though 
not in so ^aolent a degree. He lay in the same way, motion- 
less and fascinated, staring at the flgiu;e. wliich regarded him, 
as before, with a dead, fixed, chilling gaze. In this way they 
remained for a long time, tdl, by degrees, Dolph's cour- 
age began gradually to revive. Whether alive or dead, this 
being had certainly some object in his visitation: and he re- 
collected to have heard it said, that spirits have no power to 
speak unto they are spoken to. Summoning up resolution, 
therefore, and inaking two or three attempts before he could 
get his parched tongue in motion, he addressed the unknown 
in the most solemn form of adjuration that he could 
recollect, and demanded to know what wan the motive of his 
visit. 

^^ sooner had he linishedj than the old man rose^ took 



276 BliACEBRlDGE BALL. 

down his hat, the door opened, and he went out, looking back 
upon Dolph just as he crossed the threshold, as if expecting 
him to follow. The youngster did not hesitate an rastant. He 
took the candle in his hand, and the Bible under his arm, and 
obeyed the tacit invitation. The candle emitted a feeble, 
uncertain ray; but still he could see the figure before him, 
slov/ly descend the stairs. He followed, trembling. When it 
had reached the bottom of the stairs, it turned through the 
hpJl towards the back door of the mansion. Dolph held the 
light over the balustrades; but, in his eagerness to catch a 
sight of the unknown, he flared his feeble taper so suddenly, 
that it went out. Still there was sufficient light from the pale 
moonbeams, that fell thi'ough a narrow window, to give him 
an indistinct view of the figure, near the door. He followed, 
therefore, down-stairs, and turned towards the place ; but when 
he had got there, the unknown had disappeared. The door 
remained fast barred and bolted ; there was no other mode of 
exit; yet the being, whatever he might be, was gone. He 
imfastened the door, and looked out into the fields. It was a 
hazy, moonlight night, so that the eye could distinguish objects 
at some distance. He thought he saw the unknown in a foot- 
path that led from the door. He was not mistaken ; but how 
had he got out of che house? He did not pause to think, but 
followed on. The old man proceeded at a measured pace, with- 
out looking about him, his footsteps sounding on the hard 
ground. He passed through the orchard of apple-trees that 
stood near the house, always keeping the footpath. It led to 
a weh, situated in a little hollow, which had supplied the farm 
with water. Just at tliis well, Dolph lost sight of him. He 
rubbed his eyes, and looked again ; but notliing was to be seen 
of the miknown. He reached the well, but nobody was there. 
All the surrounding ground was open and clear ; there was no 
bush nor hiding-place. He looked down the weU, and saw, at 
a great depth, the reflection of the sky in the still water. After 
remaining here for some time, without seeing or hearing any 
thing more of his mysterious conductor, he returned to the 
iiouse, full of awe and wonder. He bolted the door, groped his 
way back to bed, and it was long before he could compose Inm- 
self to sleep. 

His dreams were strange and troubled. He thought he was 
following the old man along the side of a gi'eat river, until they 
came to a vessel that was on the point of sailing; and that his 
conductor led bin on board and vanished. He remembere^l 



1)0 urn UEYLIUER. 277 

the . commander of the vessel, a short swarthy man, with 
crisped black hair, blind of one eye, and lame of one leg; but 
the rest of his dream was very confused. Sometunes he was 
sailing; sometimes on shore; now amidst storms and tem- 
l)'>3ts, and now wandering quietly in unknown streets. The 
ligui'e of the old man was strangely mingled up with the in- 
cidents of the dream ; and the whole distinctly woimd up by 
his finding himself on board of the vessel again, returnmg 
liome, with a great J3af of money 1 

When he v/oke, the gray, cool light of dawn was streaking 
the horizon, and the cocks passing the reveil from farm to farm 
throughout the country. He rose more harassed and perplexed 
than ever. He was -singularly coniounded by all that he had 
seen and dreamt, and began to doubt whether his mind was 
not affected, and whether all that v/as passing in his thoughts 
might not be mere feverish fantasy. In his present state of 
mind, he did not feel disposed to return mnned lately to the 
doctor's, and undergo the cross-questioning of the household. 
He made a scanty breakfast, therexore, on the remains of the 
last night's provisions, and then wandered out into the fields to 
meditate on all that had befallen him. Lost in thought, he 
rambled about, gradually approaching the town, imtil the 
morning was far advanced, when he was roused by a hurry 
and bustle around him. He found himself near the water's 
edge, in a throng of people, hurrying to a pier, where there 
was a vessel ready to make sail. He was unconsciously car- 
ried along by the impulse of the crowd, and found that it was 
a sloop, on the point of sailing up the Hudson to Albany. 
There was much leave-taking and kissing of old women and 
children, and groat activity in carrying on board baskets of 
bread and cakes, and provisions of all kinds, notwithstanding 
the mighty joints of meat that dangled over the stern; for a 
voyage to Albany was an expedition C)f great moment in those 
days. The commander of tbo sloop was hurrying about, and 
giving a world of orders, which were not very strictly attend- 
ed to ; one man being l^usy in fighting his pipe, and another 
in sharpening his snicker-snee. 

The appearance of the commander suddenly caught Dolph's 
attention. He was short and swarthy, Avith crisped black 
hair; blind of one eye, and lame of one leg— the very com- 
mander that he had seen in his dream ! Surprised and aroused, 
he considered the scene more attentively, and reealied still 
further traces of his dream: the appearance of the vessel, of 



278 BRAGEBRIDGE HALL. 

the river, and of a variety of othor objects, accorded with- tho 
imperfect images vaguely rising to recollection. 

As lie stood musing on these circumstances, the captain 
suddenly called out to him in Dutch, "Step on hoard, young 
man, or you'll be left behmd!" He was startled by the sum- 
mons ; he saw that the sloop was cast loose, and was actually 
moving from the pier ; it seemed as if he was actuated by sorne 
irresistible impulse; he sprang upon the deck, and the next 
moment the sloop was hurried oif by the wind and tide. 
Dolph's thoughts and f eeling-s were all in tumult and confusion. 
He had been strongly worked upon by tho events that had 
recently befallen him, and could not but think that there was 
some connexion between his present situation and his last 
night's dream. He felt as if he was under supernatural in- 
fluence ; and he tried to assure hmiself with an old and favour- 
ite maxim of his, that " one way or other, all would turn out 
for the best." For a moment, the indignation of the doctor at 
his departure vvathout leave, passed across his mind — but that 
was matter of Mttle moment. Then he thought of the distress 
of his mother at his strange disappearance, and the idea gave 
him a sudden pang; he would have entreated to be put on 
ehore; but he knew with such vdnd and tide tho entreaty 
would have been in vain. Then, the inspiring love of novelty 
and adventure came rushing in full tide through his bosom ; he 
felt himself launched strangely and suddenly on the world, and 
under full Avay to explore the regions of wonder that lay up 
this mighty river, and beyond those blue mountains that had 
bounded his liorizon since childhood. Wliile lie was lost in this 
whirl of thought, the sails strained to the breeze ; the shores 
seemed to hurry away behind him ; and, before he perfectly 
recovered Ms self-possession, the sloop was ploughing her way 
past Spiking-devil and Yonkers, and the tallest chunney of the 
Manhattoes had faded from his sight. 

I have said, that a voyage up the Hudson in those days was 
an undertaking of some moment; indeed, it was as much 
thought of as a voyage to Europe is at present. The sloops 
were often many days on the way; the cautious navigators 
taking in sail when it ])lew fresh, and coming to anchor at 
night ; and stopping to send the boat ashore for milk for tea, 
■without which it v/as impossible for the v,^orthy old lady pas- 
senger.j to subsist. And there were the much-talked-of perils 
of the Tappaan Zee. and the highlands. In short, a prudent 
Dutch burgher would talk of r.;ucii a v<,iyage for months, and 



DOLPJI HhA'LJGEi:. 279 

even yeare, beforehand ; and never undertook it without put- 
ting his affairs in order, making his will, and having prayere 
said for him in the Low Dutch churches. 

In the course of such a voyage, therel'ore, Dolph was satisfied 
he would have time enough to reflect, and to make up his mind 
as to what he should do when he arrived at Albany. The cap- 
tain, with his blind eye and lame \e^, would, it is true, bring his 
strange dream to mind, and perplex him eadly for a few mo- 
ments; but, of late, his life had been made up so much of 
dreams and realities, his nights and days had been so jumbled 
tc);:;-ether, that he seemed to be moving continually in a de- 
lusion. There is always, however, a kind of vagabond con- 
solation in a man's having nothing in tliis world to lose ; with 
this Dolph comforted his heart, and determmed to make the 
most of the present enjoyment. 

In the second day of the voyage they came to the high- 
lands. It was the latter part of a cahn, sultry day, that they 
floated gently with tlio tide between these stern mountains. 
There was that perfect quiet which prevails over nature in 
the languor of summer heat; the tm-ning of a plank, or the 
accidental falling oc an oar on deck, was echoed from •'he 
mountain side and reverberated along the shores; and if by 
chance the captain gave a shout of command, there were airy 
tongues that mocked it from every cliff. 

Dolph gazed about him in mute deUght and wonder, at these 
scenes of nature's magnificence. To the left the Dunderberg 
reared its v'oody precipices, height over heiglit, forest over 
forest, away into the deep summer sky. To the right strutted 
forth the bold promontory of Anthony's Nose, with a solitary 
eagle whechng about it ; while beyond, mountain succeeded to 
mountain, until they seemed to lock their arms together, and 
confine this mighty river in their embraces. There was a feel- 
iiv/^ of quiet luxury in gazing at the broad, green bosoms here 
and there scooped out among the precipices ; or at woodlands 
high in air, nodding over the edge of some beetling bluff, and 
thc'ir foliage all ti'ansparent in the yellow sunshine. 

In the midst of his admiration, Dolph remarked a pile of 
bright, snowy clouds peering above the \7estern heights. It 
wns succeeded by another, and another, each seemingly push- 
ing onwards its predecessor, and towering, with dazzling bril- 
liancy, in the deep-blue atmosphere : and now muttering peals 
of thunder were faintly heard rolling beliind the mountains. 
"^ i ri^x-r, hitherto still and glassy, reflecting pictures of (ho 



280 BRACEBRIDQE HALL. 

sky and land, now showed a dark ripple at a distance, as the 
breeze came creeping up it. The fish-ha.wks wheeled and 
screamed, and sought their nests on the idgh dry trees; the 
crows flew clamorously to the crevices of the rocks, and ail 
nature seemed conscious of the approaching thunder-gust. 

The clouds now rolled in volumes over the mountain tops; 
their summits still bright and snowy, but the lower parts of an 
inky blackness. The rain began to patter down in broad and 
scattered drops; the wind freshened, and curled up the waves; 
at length it seemed as ii the bellying clouds were torn open by 
the mountain tops, and complete torrents of ram came rattling : 
down. The lightning leaped from cloud to cloud, and streamed 
quivering against the rocks, sphtting and rending the stoutest 
forest trees. The thunder burst in tremendous explosions; the 
peals were echoed from mountain to mountain; they crashed 
upon Dunderberg, and rolled up the long defile of the high- 
lands, each headland making a nevf echo, until old Bull hill 
seemed to bellow back the storm. 

For a time the scudding rack and mist, and the sheeted rain, 
almost liid the landscape from the sight. There was a fearful 
gloom, illumined still more fearfully by the streams of light- 
ning which glittered among the rain-drops. Never had Dolph 
beheld such an absolute warring of the elements : it seemed as 
if the storm was tearing and rending its way through this 
mountain defile, and had brought all the artillery of heaven 
into action. 

The vessel was hurried on by the increasing wind, until she 
came to where the river makes a sudden bend, the only one in 
the whole course of its majestic career.* Just as they turned 
the point, a violent flaw of wir.d came sweeping down a moun- 
tain gully, bending the forest before it, and, in a moment, lash- 
ing up the river into white froth and foam. The captain saw 
the danger, and cried out to lower the sail. Before the order 
could be obeyed, the flaw struck the sloop, and threw her on 
her beam-ends. Everything was now fright and confusion: 
the flapping of the sails, the whistling and rushing of the wind, 
the bawlmg of the captain and crew, the shrieking of the pas- 
sengers, all mingled with the rolling and bellowing of the thun- 
der. In the midst of the uproar, the sloop righted; at the 
same time the mainsail shifted, the bocn came sweeping the 



* This inu3l have been the bend at West-Point. 



LOLPII IIETLIGER. 281 

^ quarter-deck, nnd Dolph, who was gaziri^ unguardedly at the 
rlouds, found iiimself, in a moment, flour dering in the river. 

For once in his hie, one of his idle accomplishments was of 
use to him. Tho many truant hours which he had devoted to 
sporting in the Hudson, had made him an expert swimmer; 
yet, with all his strength and skiU, ho foimd great difficulty in 
reaching the shore. His disappearance from the deck had noL 
been noticed by the crew, who were all occupied by their own 
danger. The sloop was driven along with inconceivable rapid- 
ity. She had hard work to weather a long promontory on the 
eastern shore, round which the river turned, and which com- 
pletely shut her from Dolph's view. 

It was on a point of the western shore that he landed, and, 
scrambling up the rocks, he threw himself, faint and exhausted, 
at the foot of a tree. By degrees, the thunder-gust passed 
over. The clouds roUed away to the east, where they lay piled 
in feathery masses, tinted with the last rosy rays of the sim. 
The distant play of the lightning might be seen about the dark 
bases, and now and then might be heard the faint muttering of 
the thunder. Dolph rose, and sought about to see if any path 
led from the shore; but all was savage and trackless. Tho 
rocks were piled upon each other ; great trunks of trees lay 
shattered about, as they had been blown down by the strong 
winds which draw through these mountains, or had fallen 
through age. The rocks, too, were overhung with wild vines 
and briers, which completely matted themselves together, and 
opposed a barrier to all ingress; every movement that he 
made, shook down l. shower from the dripping foliage. He 
attempted to scale one of these almost perpendicular heights ; 
but, though strong and agile, he found it an Herculean imder- 
taking. Often he was supported merely by crumbling pro- 
jections of the rock, and sometimes he clung to roots and 
branches of trees, and hung almost suspended in the air. The 
wood-pigeon came cleaving his whistling flight by him, and 
the eagle screamed from the brow of the impending chff . As 
he was thus clambering, he was on the point of seizing hold of 
a shrub to aid his asoent, when something rustled among the 
leaves, and he saw a snake quivering along like lightning, 
almost from under his hand. It coiled itself up immediatel}', 
in an attitude of defiance, with flattened head, distended jaws, 
and quickly- vibrating toi^gue, that played like a little flame 
about its moutli. Dolph's hoarc turned faint within him, and 
he had weU-nigh let go his hold, and lumbled down the preci- 



282 BRACEBIilDGE HALL. 

pice. The serpent stood on the defensive but for an instant ; it 
was an instmctive movement of defence; and finding there 
was no attack, it glided away into a cleft of the rock. . Dolph's 
eye followed with fearful intensity; and he saw at a glance 
that he was in the vicinity of a nest of adders, that lay knot- 
ted, and writhing, and hissing in the chasm. He hastened 
with all speed to escape from so frightful a neighbourhood. 
His imagination was full of this new horror; he saw an adder 
in every curling vine, and heard the tail of a rattlesnake in 
every dry leaf that rustled. 

At length he succeeded in scrambling to the summit of a 
precipice ; but it was covered by a dense forest. Wherever he 
could gain a look-out between the trees, he saw that the coast 
rose in heights and chffs, one rising beyond another, until 
huge moimtains overtopped the whole. There were no signs 
of cultivation, nor any smoke cmiing amongst the trees, to 
indicate a human residence. Every tiling was wild and solitary. 
As he was standing on the edge of a precipice that overlooked 
a deep ravine fringed with trees, his feet detached a great frag- 
ment of rock ; it fell, crashing its way through the tree tops, 
down into the chasm. A loud whoop, or rather yell, issued 
frcm the bottom of the glen ; the moment after, there was the 
report of a gmi; and a ball came wliistling over his head, 
cutting the twigs and leaves, and burying itself deep in the 
bark of a chestnut-tree. 

Dolph did not wait for a second shot, but made a precipitate 
retreat ; fearing every moment to hear the enemy in pursuit. 
He succeeded, however, in returning unmolested to the shore, 
and determined to penetrate no farther into a country so beset 
with savage perils. 

He sat himseh down, dripping, disconsolately, on a wet stone. 
What was to be done? Where was he to shelter himself? The 
hour of repose was approaching ; the birds were seeking their 
nests, the bat herein to flit about in the twihght, and the night- 
hawk soaring high in heaven, seemed to be calling out the stars. 
Night gradually closed in, and wrapped every thing in gloom ; 
and though it was the latter part of summer, yet the breeze, 
stealing along the river, and among these dripping forests, was 
chilly and penetrating, especially to a half -drowned man. 

As he sat drooping and despondent in this comfortless con- 
dition, he perceived a light gleaixdng through the trees near 
the shore, where the winding of the river made a deep ba,y. It 
cheered him with the hopes that here might be some human 



DDL PI I HEYLIGKR. 283 

habitation, where he might get something to appease the clam- 
orous cravings of his stomach, and, what was equally neces- 
sary in his shipwrecked condition, a comfortable shelter 
for the night. It was with extreme difficulty that he made 
his way towards the light, along ledges of rocks down 
which he was in danger of sliding into 'the river, and over 
great trunks of fallen trees; some of which had been blown 
down in the late storm, and lay so thickly together, that 
he had to struggle through their branches. A.t length ho came 
to the brow of a rock that overhung a small dell, from whence 
the light proceeded. It was from a fire at the foot of a great 
tree, that stood in the midst of a grassy interval, or plat, 
among the rocks. The fire cast up a red glare among the gray 
crags and impending trees ; leaving chasms of deep gloom, that 
resembled entrances to caverns. A small brook rippled close 
by, betrayed by the quivering reflection of the flame. There 
were two figures moving about the fire, and others squatted 
before it. As they were between him and the light, they were 
in complete phadow ; but one of them happening to move round 
to the opposite side, Dolph v/as startled at perceiving, by the 
full glare falling on painted features, and glittering on silver 
ornaments, that he was an Indian. He now looked more nar- 
rowly, and saw guns leaning against a tree, and a dead body 
lying on the groimd. 

Dolph began to doubt whether he was not in a worse condi- 
tion than before ; here vv^as the very foe that had fired at him 
from the glen. He endeavoured to retreat quietly, not caring to 
entrust himself to these half- human beings in so savage and 
lonely a place. It Avas too late : the Indian, with that eagle 
quickness of eye so remarkable in his race, perceived something 
stirring among the bushes on the rock : he seized one of the 
guns that leaned against the tree ; one moment more, and Dolph 
might have had his passion for adventure cured by a bullet. 
He hallooed loudly, with the Indian salutation of friendship: 
the whole party sprang upon their feet; the salutation was 
loturned, and the straggler was invited to join them at the 
fire. 

On approaching, he found, to liis consolation, that the party 
A7as composed of white men as well as Indians. One, who was 
evidently the principal personage, or commander, was seated 
on the trunk of a tree before the fire. Ho was a large, stout 
man, somewhat advanced in life, but hale and hearty. Hirt 
face was bronzed almost to the colour of an Indian's : he had 



284 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 

strong but rather jovial features, an aquiline nose, and a mouth 
shaped hke a mastiff's. His face was half thrown in shade 
by a broad hat, with a buck's-tail in it. His gray hair hung 
short in his neck. He wore a hunting-frock, with Indian leg- 
gings, and nioccasons, and a tomahawJv in the broad wampum 
belt round his waist. As Dolph caught a distinct view of his 
person and features, he was struck with something that re- 
minded him of the old man of the haunted house. The man 
before him, however, was different in his dress and age; he 
was more cheery, too, in his aspect, and it was hard to define 
where the vague resemblance lay — but a resemblance there cer- 
tainly was. Dolph felt some degree of awe in approaching him ; 
but was assured by the frank, hearty welcome with which he 
was received. As he case his eyes about, too, he was still further 
encouraged, by perceiving that the dead body, which had 
caused him some alarm, was that of a deer ; and his satisfac- 
tion was complete, in discerning, by the savoury steams 
which issued from a kettle suspended by a hooked stick over 
the fire, that there was a part cooking for the evening's repast. 

He now found that he had fallen in with a rambhng hunting 
party, such as often took place in those days among the set- 
tlers along the river. The hunter is always hospitable; and 
nothing makes men more social and unceremonious, than meet- 
ing in the wilderness. The connnander of the i^arty poured 
him out a dram of cheering liquor, which he gave him with a 
merry leer, to v/arm his heart ; and ordered one of his follow- 
ers to fetch some garments from a pinnace, which was moored 
in a cove close by, while those in which our hero was dripping 
might be dried before the fire. 

Dolph found, as he had suspected, that the shot from the 
glen, which had come so near giving him his quietus when on 
the precipice, was from the party before him. He had nearly 
crushed one of them by the fragment of rock which he had 
detached ; and the jovial old hunter, in the broad hat and buck- 
tail, had fired at the place where he saw the bushes move, sup- 
posing it to be some wild animal. He laughed heartily at the 
blunder; it being what is considered an exceeding good joke 
among hunters; "but faith, my lad," said he, "if I had but 
caught a glimpse of you to take sight at, you would have fol- 
lowed the rock. Antony Vander Heyden is seldom known to 
miss liis ami." These last words were at once a clue to Dolph's 
curiosity ; and a few questions let him completely into the 
character of the man before him. and of his band of woodland 



DOLPU UEYLlQEli. 285 

rangers. The commander in the broad hat and hunting-frock 
was no less a personage than the Heer Antony Vander Hey den, 
of Albany, of whom Dolph had many a time heard. He Avas, 
in fact, the hero of many a story; being a man of singular 
humours and whimsical habits, that were matters of wonder 
to his quiet Dutch neighbours. As he was a man of property, 
having had a father before him, from whom he inherited largo 
tracts of wild land, and whole barrels full of wampum, he could 
indulge his humours without control. Instead of staying quietly 
at home, eating and drinking at regular meal times ; amusing 
himself by smoking his pipe on the bench before the door, and 
then turning into a comfortable bed at night ; he delighted in 
all kinds of rough, wild expeditions. He was never so happy 
as when on a hunting party in the wilderness, sleeping under 
trees or bark sheds, or cruising down the river, or on some wood- 
la-nd lake, fishing and fowling, and hving the Lord knows how. 

He was a great friend to Indians, and to an Indian mode of 
life ; wliich he considered true natural liberty and manly enjoy- 
ment. When at home, he had always several Indian hangers- 
on, who loitered about his house, sleeping like hounds in the 
sunshine, or preparing hunting and fishing-tackle for some new 
expedition, or shooting at marks with bows and arrows. 

Over these vagrant beings, Heer Antony had as perfect com- 
mand as a huntsman over his pack ; though they were great 
nuisances to the regular people of his neighbourhood. As he 
was a rich man, no one ventured to thwart his humours ; in- 
deed, he had a hearty, joyous manner about him, that made 
him universally popular. He Tvould troll a Dutch song, as he 
tramped along the street ; hail every one a mile off ; and when 
he entered a house, he would slap the good man famiharly on 
the back, shake him by the hand till he roared, and kiss his 
wife and daughters before his face — in short, there was no pride 
nor ill-humour about Heer Antony. 

Besides his Indian hangers-on, he had three or four humble 
friends among the white men, who looked up to him as a patron, 
and had the run of his kitchen, and the favour of being taken 
with him occasionally on his expeditions. It was with a med- 
ley of such retainers that he was at present on a cruise along 
the shores of the Hudson, in a pinnace which he kept for his 
own recreation. There were two white men with him, dressed 
partly in the Indian style, with raoccasons and hunting-shu'ts ; 
the rest of his crew consisted of four favourite Indians. They 
had been prowling about the river, without any definite object. 



286 buacebhidge hall. 



m 



until thay found themselves in the highlands ; where they had 
passed two or three days, hunting the deer which still lingered 
among these mountains. 

"It is a luciiy circumstance, young man," said Antony 
Vander Hey den, ' ' that you happened to be knocked overboard 
to-day, as to-morrow morning we start early on our return 
homewards, and you might then ha-^e looked in vain for a meal 
among the mountains — but come, lads, stir about ! stir about ! 
Let's see what prog we have for supper ; the kettle has boiled 
long enough ; my stomach cries cupboard ; and I'll warrant our 
guest is in no mood to dally with his trencher." 

There was a bustle now in the litule encam]3ment. One took 
off the kettle, and turned a part of the contents into a huge 
wooden bowl ; another prepared a flat rock for a table ; while a 
third brought various utensils from the pinnace, which was 
moored close by ; and Heer Antony himself brought a flask or 
two of precious liquor from his own private locker — knowing 
his boon companions too well to trust any of them with the key. 

A rude but hearty repast was soon spread; consisting of 
venison smoking from the kettle, witli cold bacon, boiled Indian 
corn, and mighty loaves of good brown household bread. Never 
had Doiph made a more dehcious repast ; and when he had 
washed it down with tAvo or three draughts from the Heer 
Antony's flask, and felt the jolly liquor sending its warmth 
through his veins, and glowing round his very heart, he would 
not have changed his situation, no, not with the governor of 
the province. 

The Heer Antony, too, grew chirping and joyous ; told half- 
a-dozen fat stories, at wliich his white followers laughed 
immoderately, though the Indians, as usual, maintained an 
invincible gravity. 

" This is your true life, my boy!" said he, slapping Dolph on 
the shoulder ; " a man is never a man till he can defy wind and 
weather, range woods and wilds, sleep under a tree, and live 
on bass-wood leaves !" 

And then would he sing a stave or two of a Dutch drinking 
song, swaying a short squab Dutch bottle in his hand, while 
his myrmidons would join in chorus, until the woods echoed 
again; — as the good old song has it: 

"They all with a showt made the elements ring, 
So soon as the office was o'er; 
To feastmg they went with true merriment, 
- And tippled strong hquor gillore." 



DOl.PU IIEYLIGER. 287 

In the midst of his jovialty, however, Heer Antony did no'; 
lose sight of discretion. Though he pushed the bottle without 
reserve to Dolph, yet he always took care to help his followers 
himself, knowing the beings he had to deal with ; and he was 
particular in granting but a moderate allowance to the Indians. 
The repast being ended, the Indians having diimk their liquor 
and smoked their pipes, now wrapped themselves in their 
blankets, stretched themselves on the groimd with their feet to 
the fire, and soon fell asleep, like so many tired hounds. The 
rest of the party remained chatting before the fire, Avhich the 
gloom of the forest, and the dampness of the air from the late 
storm, rendered extremely grateful and comforting. The con- 
versation gradually moderated from the hilarity of supper-time, 
and turned upon hunting adventures, and exploits and perils 
in the wilderness ; many of v\rhich were so strange and improb- 
ablo, that I will not venture to repeat them, lest the veracity 
of Antony Vander Heyden and his comrades should be brought 
into question. There were many legendary tales told, also, 
about tlie river, and the settlements on its borders ; in which 
v.aluable kind of lore, the Heer Antony seemed deeply versed. 
As the sturdy bush-beater sat in the twisted root of a tree, that 
served him for a kind of arm-chair, dealing forth these wild 
stories, with the fire gleaming on his strongly-marked visage, 
Dolph was again repeatedly perplexed by something that re- 
minded him of the phantom of the haunted house ; some vague 
resemblance, that could not be fixed upon any precise feature 
01- linea,ment, but which pervaded the general air of his coun- 
tenance and figure. 

:, The circumstance of Dolph's falling overboard being again 
discussed, led to the relation of divers disasters and singular 
mishaps that had befallen voyagers on tliis great river, particu- 
larly in the earher periods of colonial histor}' ; most of which 
the Heer deliberately attributed to supernatural causes. Dolph 
stared at this suggestion ; but the old gentleman assured him 
that it was very currently believed by the settlers a.long the 
river, that these highlands were under the dominion of super- 
natural and mischievous beings, which seemed to have taken 
some pique against the Dutch colonists in the early time of the 
settlement. In consequence of this, thej' have ever since taken 
particular delight in venting their spleen, and indulging their 
humours, upon the Dutch skippers ; bothering them with flaws, 
head v/inds, counter ciu*rents, and all kinds of impediments ; 
insonmch, that a Dutch navigator was always obHged to be 



288 BUAGEBRIDOE HALL. 

exceedingly wary and deliberate in his proceedings ; to come to 
anchor at dusk ; to drop his peak, or take in sail, whenever he 
saw a swag-beUied cloud rolhng over the mountains; in short, 
to take so many precautions, that he was often apt to be an 
incredible time in toiling up the river. 

Sojne, he said, beheved these mischievous powers of the aii> 
to be evil spirits conjured up by the Indian wizards, in the early 
times of the province, to revenge themselves on the strangers 
who had dispossessed them of their country. They even 
attributed to their incantations the misadventure which befell 
the renowned Hendrick Hudson, when he sailed so gallantly up 
this river in quest of a north-west passage, and, as he thought, 
run his sliip aground ; which they affirm was nothing more nor 
less than a spell of these same wizards, to prevent his getting 
to China m this direction. 

The greater part, however, Heer Antony observed, accounted 
for all the extraordinary circumstances attending this river, 
and the perplexities of the skippers which navigated it, by the 
old legend of the Storm-ship, which haunted Point-no-point. 
On finding Dolph to be utterly ignorant of this tradition, the 
Heer stared at him for a moment with surprise, and wondered 
where he had passed his life, to be uninformed on so uTiportant 
a pomt of history. To pass away the remainder of the even- 
ing, therefore, he undertook the tale, as far as his memory 
would serve, in the very words in which it had been written 
out by Mynheer Selyne, an early poet of the New-Nederlandts. 
Giving, then, a stir to the fire, that sent up its sparks among 
the trees like a Httle volcano, he adjusted himself comfortably 
in his root of a tree ; and throwing back his head, and closing 
liis eyes for a few moments, to summon up his recollection, he 
related the following legend. 



THE STOEM-SHIP. 

Ix the golden age of the province of the New-Netherlands, 
when it was imder the sway of Wouter Van Twiller, otherwise 
called the Doubter, the people of the Manhattoes wore alarmed, 
one sultry afternoon, just about the tune of the summer solstice, 
by a tremendous storm of thunder and lightning. The rain 
descended in such torrents, as absolutely to spatter up and 



THE STOHMSUIP 289 

smoke along the ground. It seemed as if the thunder rattled 
and rolled over the very roofs of the houses ; the lightning was 
seen to play about the church of St. Nicholas, and to strive three 
times, in vain, to strike its weather-cock. Garret Van Home's 
new chimney was split almost from top to bottom ; and Doffue 
Mildeberger was struck speechless from his bald-faced mare, 
just as he was riding into town. In a word, it was one of those 
unparalleled storms, that only happen once Avithin the memory 
of that venerable personage, known in all towns by the appella- 
tion of "the oldest inhabitant." 

Great was the terror of the good old women of the Manhat- 
toes. They gathered their children together, and took refuge 
in the cellars ; after having hung a shoe on the iron point of 
every bed-post, lest it should attract the lightning. At length 
the storm abated : the thunder sunk into a growl ; and the set- 
ting sun, breaking from under the fringed borders of the clouds, 
made the broad bosom of the bay to gleam hke a sea of molten 
gold. 

The word was given from the fort, that a sliip was standing 
up the bay. It passed from mouth to mouth, and street to 
street, and soon put the little capital in a bustle. The arrival 
of a ship, in those early times of the settlement, was an event 
of vast importance to the inftabitants. It brought them news 
from trie old world- from the land of their bu-th, from which 
they w-ere so completely severed : to the yearly ship, too, they 
looked for their supply of luxuries, of finery, of comforts, and 
almost of necessaries. The good vrouw could not have her 
new cap, nor new gown, until the arrival of the sliip ; the artist 
waited for it for his tools, the burgomaster for his pipe and his 
supply of Hollands, the school-boy for his top and marbles, and 
the lordly landholder for the Dricks with which he was to build 
his new mansion. Thus every one, rich and poor, great and 
small, looked out for the arrival of the ship. It was the great 
yearly event of the town of New- Amsterdam ; and from one 
end of the year to the otner, the ship— the ship — ^the ship— was 
the continual tc^ic of conversation. 

The news from the fort, therefore, brought all the populace 
down to the battery, to behold the wished-for sight. It was 
not exactly the time when she had been expected to arrive, and 
the circumstance was a matter of some speculation. Many 
were the groups collected about the battery. Here and there 
miglit be seen a burgomaster, of slow and pompous gravity, 
giving his opinion with great confidence to a crowd of old 



290 BRAJJEBUIDGE HALL. 

women and idle boys. At another place was a knot of old 
weatherbeaten fellows, who had been seamen or fishermen in 
their times, and were great authorities on such occasions ; these 
gave different opmions, and caused great disputes among their 
several adherents : but the man most looked up to, and followed 
and watched by the crowd, v/as Hans Van Pelt, an old Dutch 
sea-captain retired from seiwice, the nautical oracle of the 
place. He reconnoitred the ship through an ancient telescope, 
covered with tarry canvas, hummed a Dutch tune to himself, 
and said notliing. A hum, hovv^ever, trom Hans V?ai Pelt had 
always more weight with the public than a speech from an- 
other man. 

In the meantime, the ship became more distinct to the naked 
eye : she was a stout, round Dutch-built vessel, with high bow 
and poop, and bearing Dutch colours. The evening sun gilded 
her bellying canvas, as she came riding over tne long waving 
billows. The sentinel who had given noti'ce of her approach, 
declared, that he first got sight of her when she was in the cen- 
tre of the ba.y ; and that she broke suddenly on his sight, just 
as if she had come out of the bosom oi the black thunder-cloud. 
The bystandere looked at Hans Van Pelt, to see what he would 
say to this report : Hans Van Pelt screvv^ed his mouth closer to- 
gether, and said nothing; upon which some shook their heads, 
and others shrugged their shoulders. 

The ship was now repeatedly hailed, but made no reply, and, 
passing by the fort, stood on up the Hudson. A gun was 
brought to bear on her, and. with some difiiculty, loaded and 
fired by Hans Van Pelt, the garrison not being expert in artil- 
lery. The shot seemed absolutely to pass through the ship, and 
to skip along the water on the other side, but no notice was taken 
of it ! What was strange, she had all lier sails set, and sailed 
right against wind and tide, which were both down the river. 
Upon this Hans Van Pelt, v/ho was hkewise harbour-master, 
ordered his boat, and set off to board her; but after rowing 
two or three hours, he returned without success. Sometimes 
he would get within one or tv/o hundred yards of her, and 
then, in a twinkling, she would be half a mile off. Some said 
it was because Iiis oarsmen, vrho were rather pursy and short- 
winded, stopped every now and then to take breath, and npit 
on their hands; but tliis, it is probable, was a mere scandal. 
Ho got near enough, hoAvever, to see the crev/ ; who Vv'ere all 
dressed in the Dutch style, the officers in doublets and high 
hats and feathers : not a word was spoken by any one on board ; 



THK SJOUM-iSUIP. 201 

they stood as motionless as so many statues, and the ship 
seemed as if left to her own government. Thus she kept on, 
a^ray up the river, ler^sening and lessening in the evening sun- 
shine, until she faded from sight, like a little white cloud nieil- 
ing away in the sunmier sky. 

The appearance of this ship threw the governor into one of 
the deepest doubts that ever beset him in the whole course of 
his administration. Fears were entertained for the security 
of the infant settlements on the river, lest this might be an 
enemy's ship in disguise, sent to take possession. The gover- 
nor cpvUed together his council repeatedly to assist him with 
their conjectures. He sat in his chair of state, built of timber 
from the sacred Forest of the Hague, and smoking his long jas- 
mine pipe, and hstened to all that his counsellors had to say on 
a subject about which they knew nothing ; but, in spite of all 
the conjecturing of the sagest and oldest heads, the governor 
still contiimed to doubt. 

Messengers v/ere despatched to different places on the river ; 
but they returned without any tidings— the ship had made no 
port. Day after day, and week after week, elapsed; but she 
never returned down the Hud r en. As, however, the- council 
seemed solicitous for inteUigenee, they had it in abundance. 
The captains of the sloops seldom arrived without bringing 
some report of having seen the strange ship at different parts 
of the river; sometimes near the Palisadoes; sometimes off 
Croton Point, and sometimes in the higlilands ; but she never 
was reported as having been seen above the highlands. The 
crews of the sloops, it is true, generally differed among them- 
selves in their accounts of these apparitions; but they may 
have arisen from the uncertain situations in which they saw 
her. Sometimes it was by the flashes of the thunder-storm 
hghting up a pitchy night, and giving glimpses of her careering 
across Tappaan Zee, or the wide waste of Haverstraw Bay. At 
one moment she would appear close upon them, as if likely to 
run them do\vn, and would throw them into great bustle and 
a^arm; but the next flash would show her far off, always sail- 
ing against the mnd. Sometimes, in quiet moonlight nights, 
she would be seen under some high bluff of the higlilands, all 
in deep shadow, excepting hor top-sails glittering in the moon- 
beams; by the time, however, that the voyagers would reach 
the place, there would be no ship to be seen; and when thev 
had passed on for some riistnnce, and looked back, behold! 
there she was again wdth bo? i op-sails in the moonshine 1 Her 



2^2 BRACEBPdDGPJ HALL. 



1 



appearance was always just after, or just before, or just in the 
midst of, unruly weather ; and she was known by all the skip- 
pers and voyagers of the Hudson, by the name of " the storm- 
ship." 

These reports perplexed the governor and his council more 
than ever ; and it would be endless to repeat the conjectures 
and opinions that were uttered on the S7.ibject. Some quoted 
cases in point, of ships seen off the coast of New-England, 
navigated by -witches and goblins. Old Hans Yan Pelt, v/ho 
had been more than once to the Dutch colony at the Cape of 
Good Hope, insisted that this must be the Flying Dutchman 
which had so long haunted Table Bay, but. being unable to 
make port, had now sought another harbour. Others sug- 
gested, that, if it really was a supernatural apparition, as there 
was every natural reason to believe, it might be Hendrick 
Hudson, and his crew of the Half-Moon; who, it was well- 
known, had once run aground m the upper part of the river, in 
seeking a north-west passage to China. This opinion had very 
httle weight with the governor, but it passed current out of 
doors ; for indeed it had already been reported, that Hendrick 
Hudson and his crew haunted the Kaatskill Mountain ; and it 
appeared very reasonable to suppose, that his ship might infest 
the river, where the enterprise was baffled, or that it might 
bear the shadowy crew to their periodical revels in the moun- 
tain. 

Other events occurred to occupy the thoughts and doubts of 
the sage Wouter and his council, and the storm-ship ceased to 
be a subject of deliberation at the board. It continued, how- 
ever, to be a matter of popular belief and marvellous anecdote 
through the whole time of the Dutch government, and particu- 
larly just before the capture of New- Amsterdam, and the sub- 
jugation of the province by the Enghsh squadron. About thnt 
time the storm-ship was repeatedly seen in the Tappaan Zee, 
and about Weehawk, and even down as far as Hoboken ; and 
her appearance was supposed to be ominous of the approaching 
squall in public affairs, and the downfall of Dutch domination. 

Since that time, we have no authentic accounts of her; 
though it is said she still haunts the highlands and cruises 
about Point-no-point. People who hve along the river, insist 
that they som.etimes see her in summer moonlight ; and that in 
a deep still midnight, they have heard the chant of her crew, 
as if heaving the lead ; but sights and sounds are so deceptive 
along the mountainous shores, and about the wide bays and 



TUB STOBM-SIIIP. 293 

long reaches of this great river, that I confess I have very 
strong doubts upon the subject. 

It is certain, nevertheless, that strange things have been seen 
in these higlilands in storms, which are considered as connected 
with the old story of the ship. The captains of the river craft 
talk of a little bulbous-bottomed Dutch goblin, m trunk hose 
and sugar-loafed hat, with a speaking trumpet in his hand, 
which they say keeps about the Dunderberg.* They declare 
they have heard him, in stormy weather, in the midst of the 
turmoil, giving orders in Low Dutch for the piping up of a 
fresh gust of v*^md, or the rattling oft" of another thunder-clap. 
That sometimes he has been seen surrounded by a crew of little 
imps in broad breeches and short doublets ; tumbling head-over- 
hcels in the rack and mist, and playing a thousand gambols in 
the air; or buzzing like a swarm of flies about Antony's Nose; 
and that, at such times, the hurry-scurry of the storm was 
always greatest. . One time, a sloop, in passing by the Dunder- 
berg, was overtaken by a thunder-gust, that came scouring 
round the mountain, and seemed to burst just over the vessel. 
Tliough tight and well ballasted, yet slie laboured dreadfully, 
until the water came over the gunwale, xill the crew were 
amazed, when it was discovered that there was a little white 
sugar-loaf hat on the mast-head, which was known at once to 
be that of the Heer of the Dunderberg. Nobody, however, 
dared to climb to the mast-head, and get rid of this tei'rible 
hat. The sloop continued labouring and rocking, as if she 
would have rolled her mast overboard. She seemed in con- 
tinual danger either of upsetting or of running on shore. In 
tliis way she drove quite through the highlands, vmtil she had 
passed Pollopol's Island, where, it is said, the jurisdiction of 
the Dunderberg potentate ceases. No sooner had she passed 
this bourne, than the little hat, all §t once, spun up into the air 
Mke a top, whMed up aU the clouds into a vortex, and hm'ried 
them back to the summit of the Dunderberg, while the sloop 
righted herself, and sailed on as quietly as if in a mill-jDond. 
Nothing saved her from utter wreck, but the fortunate circum- 
stance of having a horse-shoe nailed against the mast — a wise 
precaution agamst evil spirits, which has since been adopted by 
all the Dutch captains that navigate this haunted river. 

There is another story told of this foul-weather urchin, by 



i.e.. the " Thunder-Moiiutain,'" .so eallcd from its echoes. 



294 BRAGEBRIDGE HALL. 

Skipper Daiii-el Ouslestickor, of Fish-Hill, who was never kno-vm 
to tell a he. He declared, thp.t, in a severe squall, he saw him 
seated astride of his bowsprit, riding the sloop ashore, full butt 
against Antony's Nose ; and that he Y\^as.exorcised by Doniinie 
Van Gieson, of Esopns, who happened to be on board, and who 
sung the hymn of St. Nicholas ; whereupon the goblin threv/ 
himseK up in the air hke a, ball, and went ofi in a whirlwind, 
carrying away with him the nightcap of the Dominie's wife ; 
which was discovered the next Sunday morning hanging on the 
vv^eather-cock of Esopus church steeple, at least forty miles off ! 
After several events of this kind had taken place, the regular 
skippers of the river, for a long thne, did not venture to i3ass 
the Dunderberg, without lowering their peaks, out of homage 
to the Heer of the mountain ; and it was observed that all such 
as paid this tribute of respect were suffered to pass unmolested.* 



''Such," said Antony Vander Heyden, "are a few of the 
stories written down by Selyne the poet concerning this storm- 
ship; which he afiirms to have brought this colony of mis- 
chievous imps into the province, from some old ghost-ridden 
country of Europe. I could give you a host more, if necessary , 
for all the accidents that so often befall the river craft in the 
highlands, are said to be tricks played oif by these iQips of the 
Dunderberg ; bat I see that you are nodding, so let us turn in 
for the night. " 

The moon had just raised her silver horns above the round 
back of old Buil-Hiil, and lit up the gray rocks and shagged 

* Among the superstitior.s which prevailed in the eolonies during the early times 
of the settlements, there seems to have been a singular one about phantom ships. 
The supei-stitious fancies of men are alweiys apt to turn upon those objects which 
concern their daily occupations. The solitary ship, which, from year to year, came 
like a raven in the wilderness, bringing to the inhabitants of a settlement the com- 
forts of life from the world from which they were cut off, was apt to be present to 
their dreams, whether sleeping or waking. The accidental sight from shore, of a 
sail gliding along the horizon, in those, as yet, lonely seas, was apt to be a matter 
of much talk and speculation. There is mention made in one of the early New- 
England writers, of a ship navigated by witches, with a great horse that stood by 
the mainmast. I have met v/ith another story, somewhere, of a ship that drove on 
shore, in fair, sunny, tranquil v/eather, with sails all set, and a table spread in the 
cabin, as if to regale a number of guests, yet not a living being on board. These 
phantom ships always sailed in the eye of the wind ; or ploughed tlieir way with great 
velocity, making the smooth sea foam before their bows, when not a breath of air 
was stirring. 

Moore has finely wrought up one of these legends of the sea into a little tale 
which, within a small compass, contains the very essence of this species of super- 
natural fiction. I allude to his Spectre-Ship beund to Dead-man's Isle. 



THE STOUM-SUir. 295 

forests, and glittered on the waving bosom of the river. Tlio 
rJglit-dew was falling, and the late gloomy mountains began to 
poften, and put on a gray aerial tint in the dewy light. The 
himters stirred the fire, and threw on fresh fuel to qualify the 
damp of tiio night air. They then prepared a bed of bi-anches 
and dry leaves under a ledge of rocts, for Dolph ; while An- 
tony Vander Ileyden, wrapping himself up in a huge coat 
3P.ade of skins, stretched himself before the fire. It was some 
time, however, before Dolph could close his eyes. He lay con- 
templating the strange scene before him ; the vild vroods and 
rocks around— the lire, throwmg fitful gleams on the faces of 
the sleeping savages — and the Heer Antony, too, who so singu- 
larly, yet vaguely reminded him of the nightly visitant to the 
haunted house. Now and then he heard the cry of some 
aiiimal from thelforest; or the hooting of the owl; or the notes 
of the w-hip-poor-will, which seemed to abound among these 
solitudes ; or the splash of a sturgeon, leaping out of the river, 
and falling back full length on its placid surface. He con- 
trasted aU this with his accustomed nest in the garret-room of 
the doctoi-'s mansion ; where the only sounds he heard at night 
were the church-clock telhng the hour ; the drowsy voice of 
the watchman, drawling out ah was well ; the deep snoring of 
the doctor's clubbed nose from below stairs ; or the cautious 
labours of some carpenter rat gnawing in the wainscot. His 
thoughts then wandered to his poor old mother : what would 
she think of his mysterious disappearance? — what anxiety and 
distress would she not suffer? This was the thought that 
would continually intrude itself, to mar bis present enjoyment. 
It brought with it a. feeling of pain and comj)unction, and ho 
feU asleep with the tears yet standing in his ej-es. 

Were this a mere tale of fancy, here would be a fine oppor- 
tunity for weaving in strange adventures among these wild 
mountains and roving hunters; and, after involving my hero 
in a variety of perils and diificulties, rescuing him from them 
aU by some miraculous contrivance : but as this is absolutely a 
true story, I must content myself with shn-^ie facts, and keep 
to probabilities. 

At an early hour the next day, therefore, after a hearty 
morning's meal, the encampment broke up, and our adven- 
turers embarked in the pinnace of Antony Vander Heyden. 
There being no wind for the sails, the Indians rowed her 
gently along, keeping time to a khid of chant of one of the 
white men. The day was serene and beautiful ; the river with- 



996 BBAGEBRIDGE UALL. 

out a wave ; and as the vessel cleft the glassy water, it left a 
long, undulating track beliind. The crows, who had scented 
the hunters' banquet, were already gathering and hovering in 
the air, just where a column of thin, blue smoke, rising from 
among the trees, showed the place of their last night's quarters. 
As they coasted along the bases of the mountams, the Heer 
Antony pointed out to Dolph a bald eagle, the sovereign of 
these regions, who sat perched on a dry tree that projected 
over the river; and, with eye turned upwards, seemed to be 
drinking in the splendour of the morniiig sun. Their approach 
disturbed th.e monarch's meditations. He first spread one 
wing, and then the other ; balanced himself for a moment ; and 
then, quitting his perch with dignified composure, wheeled 
slowly over their hoc^ds. Dolph snatched up a gun, and sent 
a whistling ball after hun, that cut some of the feathers from 
his wing ; the report of the gun leaped sharply from rock to 
rock, a,nd awakened a thousand echoes ; but the monarch of 
the au^ sailed calmly on, ascending higher and higher, and 
wheeling v/idely as he ascended, soaring up the green bosom of 
the woody mountain, until he disappeared over the brow of a 
beetling precipice. Dolph felt in a manner rebuked by this 
proud tranquillity, and almost reproached himself for having 
so wantonly insulted this majestic bird. Heer Antony told 
him, laughing, to remember that he was not yet out of the 
territories of the lord of the Dunderberg ; and an old Indian 
shook his head, and obseiwed that there was bad luck in killing 
an eagle — the hunter, on the contrary, should always leave 
him a portion of his spoils. 

Nothing, however, occurred to molest them on their voyage. 
They passed pleasantly through magnificent and lonely scenes, 
until they came to where Pollopoi's laland lay, like a floating 
bower, at the extremity of the highlands. Here they landed, 
until the heat of the day should abate, or a breeze spring up, 
that might supersede the labour of the oar. Some prepared 
the mid-day meal, while others reposed under the shade of the 
trees in luxurious summer indolence, looking drowsily forth 
upon the beauty of the scene. On the one side v/ere the high- 
lands, vast and cragged, feathered to the top with forests, and 
throwing their shadows on the glassy water that dimpled at 
their feet. On the other side was a wide expanse of the river, 
like a broad lake, with long sunny reaches, and green head- 
lands; and the distant line of Shawungunli mountains waving 
along a clear horizon, or checkered by a fleecy cloud. 



Tiui: STOUM-SIJIP. 297 

But I forbear to dAvell on the particulars of their cruise along 
the river; this vagrant, amphibious hfe, careering across silver 
sheets of water; coasting wild woodland shores; banqueting 
on shady promontories, with the spreading tree overhead, the 
river curhng its light foam to one's feet, and distant moimtain, 
and rock, and tree, and snowy cloud, and deep-blue sky, all 
mingling in summer beauty before one ; all this, though never 
cloying in the enjoyment, would be but tedious in narration. 

When encamped by the water-side, some of the party would 
go into the woods and hunt ; others would fish : sometimes they 
would amuse themselves by shooting at a mark, by leaping, by 
rimning, by wrestling ; and Dolph gained great favour in the 
eyes of Antony Vander Heyden, by bis skill and adroitness in 
all these exercises ; which the Heer considered as the highest 
of manly accomplishments. 

Thus did they coast joUily on, choosing only the pleasant 
hours for voyaging; sometimes in the cool morning dawn, 
sometimes in the sober evening tv/ilight, and sometimes when 
the moonshine spangled the crisp curling waves that whispered 
along the sides of their little bark. Never had Dolph felt so 
completely in liis element ; never had he met with any thing 
so completely to his taste as this wild, hap-hazard life. He 
was the very man to second Antony Vander Heyden in his 
rambling humours, and gained continually on his affections. 
The heart of the old bushwhacker yearned toward the young 
man, who seemed thus growing up in his own Hkeness ; and as 
they approached to the end of their voyage, he could not help 
inquiring a little into his history. Dolph frankly told him his 
course of life, his severe medical studies, liis little proficiency, 
and his very dubious prospects. The Heer was shocked to find 
that such amazing talents and accomphshments were to be 
cramped and buried imder a doctor's wig. He had a sovereign 
contempt for the healing art, having never had any other phy- 
sician than the butcher. He bore a mortal grudge to all kinds 
of study also, ever since he had been flogged about an unintel- 
ligible book when he was a boy. But to think that a young fel- 
low like Dolph, of such wonderful abilities, who could shoot, 
fish, run, ji^mp, ride, and wrestle, should be obliged to roll 
pills and administer juleps for a living — 'twas monstrous ! He 
told Dolph never to despair, but to " throw physic to the dogs;" 
for a young fellow of his prodigious talents could never fail to 
make his way. " As you seem to have no acquaintance in Al- 
bany," said Heer Antony, "you shall go home with me, and 



2QS BRACKBIUDGK HALL. 

remain Tinder my roof until you can look about you ; and in 
the meantime we can take an occasional bout at shooting and 
fishing, for it is a pity such talents should he idle." 

Dolph, who was at the niercy of chance, was not hard to 
be persuaded. Indeed, on turning over matters in his mind, 
which he did very sagely djnd- deliberately, he could not but 
think tha,t Antony Vander Hey don was, " some hov/ or other," 
connected with the story of the Haunted House ; that the misad- 
venture in the highlands, which had thrown them so strangely 
together, was, ' ' some how or other, " to work out somethmg 
good : in short, there is nothing so convenient as this ' ' some 
how or other" way of accommodating one's self to circum- 
stances; it is the mam-stay of a heedless actor, and tardy 
reasoner, hke Dolph Heyliger ; and he who can, in this loose, 
easy way, link foregone evil to anticipated good, possesses a 
secret of happiness ahnost equal to the philosopher's stone. 

On their arrival at Albany, the sight of Dolph's companion 
seemed to cause universal satisfaction. Many were the greet- 
ings at the river side, and the saluta,tions in the streets: the 
dogs bounded before him; the boys whoofied as he passed; 
every body seemed to know Antony Vander Heyden. Dolph 
followed on in silence, admiring the neatness oi this worthy 
hurgh ; for in those days Albany was in all its glory, and in- 
habited almost exclusively by the descendants of the original 
Dutch settlers, for it had not as yet been discovered and colo- 
nized by the restless people of New-England. Every thing 
was quiet and orderly ; every thing was conducted cahnly and-, 
leisurely; no hurry, no bustle, no struggling and scrambling 
for existence. The grass grew about the unpaved streets, and 
reheved the eye by its refreshmg verdure. The tall sycamores 
or pendent willows shaded the houses, with caterpillars swing- \ 
ing, in long silken strings, from their branches, or moths, flut- j 
tering about hke coxcombs, in joy at their gay transforma- I 
tion. The houses were built in the old Dutch style, with the ( 
gable-ends towards the street. The thrifty housewife waa I 
seated on a bench before her door, in close crimped cap, bright '■. 
flowered gown, and white apron, busily employed, in knitting. I, 
The husband smoked his pipe on the opposite bench, and the ji 
little pet negro girl, seated on the step at her mistress' feet, j^ 
was industriously plying her needle. The swallows sported [ 
about the ea,ves, or skirmned along the streets, and brought [ 
back some rich booty for their clamorous young; and the little | 
housekeeping wren flew in and out of a Liihputian house, or i 



the: STonM-SHiP. 299 

an old hat nailed against the wall. The co^vs were coming 
home, lowing through the streets, to be milked at their owner's 
door; and if, perchance, there were any loiterers, some negro 
urchin, with a long goad, was gently urging them homewards. 

As Dolph's companion passed on, he received a tranquil nod 
fjv)mthe burghers, and a friendly word from their v^^ivcs ; all 
.ing him familiarly by the name of Antony; for it v/as the 
; Lorn in this strong-hold of the patriarchs, where they had 
all grown up together from ciiildhood, to call every one by the 
Christian name. The Heer did not pause to have liis usual 
jokes with them, for he was impatient to reach his home. At 
length they arrived at his mansion. It was of some magni- 
tude, in the Dutch style, with large iron figures on the gables, 
that gave the date of its erection, and shov/ed that it had been 
built m the earliest times of the settlement. 

The news of Heer Antony's arrival had preceded him ; and 
the whole household was on the look-out. A crew of negi'oes, 
large and small, had collected in front of the house to receive 
him. The old, white-headed ones, who had grown gi'ay in his 
service, grinned for joy and made many awkward bows and 
grimaces, and the little ones capered about his knees. But the 
most happy being in the household was a little, plump, bloom- 
ing lass, his only cliild, and the darling of his heart. She came 
bounding out of the house ; but the sight of a strange young 
man with her father called ^up, for a moment, all the bashful- 
ness of a homebred damsel. Dolph gazed at her with wonder 
and delight ; never had he seen, as lie thought, any thing so 
comely in the shape of woman. She was dressed in the good 
old Dutch taste, with long stays, and full, short petticoats, so 
admirably adapted to show and set off the female form. Her 
hair, turned up under a small round cap, displayed the fairness 
of her forehead ; she had fine, blue, laughing eyes, a trim, slen- 
der waist, and soft swell— but, in a word, she was a little 
Dutch divinity ; and Dolph, who never stopt half-way in a new 
impulse, fell desperately in love with her. 

Dolph was now ushered into the house with a hearty wel- 
come. In the interior was a mingled display of Heer Antony's 
taste and habits, and of the opulence of liis predecessors. The 
cha,mbers were furnished with good old mahogany ; the beau- 
fets and cupboards glittered with embossed silver, and painted 
china. Over the parlour fire-place was, as usual, the family 
coat-of-arms, painted and framed; above which was a long 
duck fowling-piece, flanked by an Indian pouch, and a powder- 



300 BRAGEBRIBGE HALL. 



J 



liorn. The room was decorated with many Indian article 
Buch as pipes of peace, tomahawks, scalping-knives, hunting 
pouches, and belts of wampum ; and there were various kinds 
of fishing tackle, and two or three fowling-pieces in the corners. 
The household affairs seemed to be conducted, in some meas- 
ure, after the master's humours ; corrected, perhaps, by a little: 
quiet management of the daughter's. There was a degree of 
patriarchal .simplicity, and good-humoured indulgence. The;; 
negroes came into the room without being called, merely to; 
look at their master, and hear of his adventures ; they woiild i 
stand listening at the door until he had finished a story, and 
then go off on a broad grin, to repeat it in the kitchen. A couple 
of pet negro children were playing about the floor with the 
dogs, and sharing with them their bread and butter. All the 
domestics looked .hearty and happy ; and when the table was 
set for the evening repast, the variety and abundance of good 
household luxuries bore testimony to the openhanded liberal- 
ity of the Heer, and the notable housewifery of his daughter. 

In the evening there dropped in several of the worthies of 
the place, the Van Eemisellaers, and the Gransevoorts, and the 
Bosebooms, and others of Antony Vander Heyden's intimates, 
to hear an account of his expedition ; for he was the Sindbad of 
Albany, and his exploits a.nd adventures were favourite topics 
of conversation among the inhabitants. While these sat gossip- 
ing together about the door of the hall, and teUing long twihght 
stories, Dolph was cozily seated, entertaining the daughter on 
a window-bench. He had already got on intimate terms ; for 
those were not times of false reserve and idle ceremony ; and, 
besides, there is somethmg wonderfully propitious to a lover's 
suit, in the delightful dusk of a long summer evening; it gives 
courage to the most timid tongue, and hides the blushes of 
the bashful. The stars alone twinkled brightly ; and now and 
then a fire-fly streamed his transient fight before the win- 
dow, or, wandering into the room, flew gleaming about the 
ceiling\ 

What Dolph whispered in her ear, that long summer even- 
ing, it is impossible to sa.y : his words were so low and indistinct, 
that they never reached the ear of the historian. It is proba- 
ble, however, that they were to the purpose; for he had a 
natural talent at pleasing the sex, and was never long in com- 
pany with a petticoat without paying proper court to it. In 
the meantime, the ^dsitors, one by one, departed ; Antony V^an- 
der Heyden, who had fairly talked himself silent, sat nodding 



THE STORM-SHIP. 301 

alone in liis chair by the dcor, when he was suddenly aroused 
)i} a hearty salute with which Dolph Heyhger had unguardedly 
rounded oil" one of his periods, and which echoed through the 
still chamber like the report of a pistol. The Heer started up, 
rubbed his eyes, called for lights, and observed, that it was 
hi,i;-h time to go to bed; though, on parting for the night, he 
'czfcd Dolph heartily by the hand, looked kindly in his face, 
; shook his head knowingly ; for the Heer well remembered 
it he Imnself had been at the youngster's age. 
L he chamber in which our hero was lodged was spacious, and 
panelled with oak. It was furnished with clothes-presses, and 
mighty chests of drawers, w^ell waxed, and glittering with 
brass ornaments. These contained ample stock of family linen ; 
for the Dutch house^vdves had always a laudable pride in show- 
ing off their household treasures to strangers. 

Dolph's mind, however, was too full to take particular note 
of the objects around hmi ; yet he could not help continually 
comparing the free, open-hearted cheeriness of tliis establish- 
ment with the starvehng, sordid, joyless housekeeping at Doc- 
tor Knipperhausen's. Still there was sometliing that marred 
the enjoyment— the idea that he must take leave of his hearty 
host and pretty hostess and cast hunself once more adrift upon 
the world. To linger here would be folly ; he should only get 
deeper in love ; and for a poor varlet hke himself to aspire to 
the daughter of the great Heer Vander Heyden— it was mad- 
ness to think of such a tiling ! The very kindness that the girl 
had shown towards him prompted him, on reflection, to hasten 
his departure ; it would be a poor return for the frank hos- 
pitality of his host to entangle his daughter's heart in an in- 
judicious attachment. In a v^ord, Dolph was like many other 
?^oimg reasoners, of exceeding good hearts and giddy heads, 
kVlio think after they act, and act dilferently from what they 
hhik; who make excellent determinations overnight and for- 
get to keep them the next morning. 

"This is a fine conclusion, truly, of my voyage," said he, as 
ic almost buried himself in a sumptuous feather-bed, and drew 
he fresh w^hitc sheets up to his chin. "Here am I, instead of 
inding a bag of money to carry home, launched in a strange 
lace, -with scarcely a stiver in my pocket; and, what is worse, 
ave jumped ashore up to my very ears in love into the bar- 
run. However," added he, after some pause, stretching him- 
?lf and turning himself in bed, "I'm in good quarters for the 
resent, at least ; so I'll e'en enjoy the present moment, and leg 



302 BEACEBBIBGE HALL. 

the next take care of itself; I dare say all will work out, ' some 
how or other,' for the best." 

As he said these words, he reached out his hand to extinguish 
the candle, when he was suddenly struck with astonishment 
and dismay, for he thought he beheld the phantom of tho 
haunted house staring on him from a dusky part of the cham- 
ber. A second look reassured him, as he perceived that Avhat 
he had taken for the spectre v/as, in fact, nothing but a Flem- 
ish portrait, that hung in a shadowy corner just behind a 
clothes-press. It was, however, the precise representation of 
his nightly visitor :— the same cloak and belted jcrkm, the same 
grizzled beard and fixed eye, the same broad slouched hat, with 
a feather hanging over one side. Dolph now called to mind 
the resemblance he had frequently remarked between his host 
and the old man of the haunted house ; and was fully convinced 
that they were in some way connected, and that some especial 
destiny had governed his voyage. He lay gazing on the por- 
trait with almost as much awe a.s he had gazed on the ghostly 
original, until the shrill house-clock warned him of the lateness 
of the hour. He put out the light ; but rema^ined for a long 
time turning over these curious circumstances and coincidences 
m his mind, until he fell asleep. His dreams partook of the 
nature of his waking thoughts. He fancied that he still laj? 
gazing on the picture, until, by degrees, it became animated 
that the figure descended from the wall and walked out of th( 
room; that he followed it and found himself by the well, t(, 
which the old man pointed, smiled on him, and disappeared. 

In the morning when Dolph waked, he found his host stand 
ing by his bed-side, who gave him a hearty morning's saluta 
tion, and asked him how he had slept. Dolph answere( 
cheerily ; but took occasion to inquire about the portrait tha 
hung against the wall. "Ah," said Heer Antony, ''that's 
portrait of old Killian Yander Spies-el, once a burgomaster ,o 
Amsterdam, who, on some popular troubles, abandoned Ho] 
land and came over to the province during the government -c 
Peter Stu^/vesant. He was my ancestor hj the mother's sidf 
and am old miserly curmudgeon he was. When the Englis 
took possession of New-Amsterdam in 1664, he retired into tB 
country. He fell into a melancholy, apprehending that hi 
wealth would be taken from hun and that he would come t 
beggary. He turned all his property into cash, and used 1 
hide it away. He was for a year or two concealed in variof 
places, fancying hhnself sought after by the English, to stri 






TEE STORM-SHIP. 303 

him of his wealth; and finally was found dead in his bed one 
momiiig, without any one being able to discover where he had 
concealed the greater part of his money." 

When his host had left the room, Dolph remained for some 
time lost in thought. His whole mind was occupied by what 
he had heard. Vander Spiegel was his mother's family name ; 
and he recollected to have heard her speak of this very Kilhan 
Vander Spiegel as one of her ancestors. He had heard her say, 
too, that her father was KilHan's rightful heir, only that the 
old man died without leaving any thing to be inherited. It now 
appeared that Heer Antony was hkewise a descendant, and 
perhaps an heir also, of this poor rich man ; and that thus the 
Heyligers and the Vander Heydens were remotely connected. 
"What," thought he, "if, after all, this is the interpretation of 
my dream, that this is the way I am to make my fortune by 
this voyage to Albany, and that I am to find the old man's 
hidden wealth in the bottom of that well? But what an odd, 
round-about mode of communicating the matter! Why the 
plague could not the old goblm have told me about the well at 
once, without sending me all the way to Albany to hear a story 
that was to send me all the way back again?" 

These thoughts passed through his mind wliile he was dressing. 
He descended the stairs, full of perplexity, when the bright 
face of Marie Vander Heyden suddenly beamed in smiles upon 
him, and seemed to give him a clue to the whole mystery. 
"After aU," thouv^dit he, "the old gobhn is in the right. If I 
am to get his wealth, he means that I shall marry his pretty de- 
scendant; thus both branches of the family wiU be again 
imited, and the property go on in the proper channel." 

No sooner did this idea enter his head, than it carried con- 
viction with it. He was now all impatience to hurry back and 
secure the treasure, which, he did not doubt, lay at the bottom 
of the well, and which he feared every moment might be dis- 
covered by some other person. "Who knows," thought he, 
"but this night- walking old fellow of the haunted house may 
be in the habit of haunting every visitor, and may ^yq a hint 
to some shrewder fellow than myself, w,lio will take a shorter 
cut to the well than by the way of Albany?" He wished a 
thousand times that the babbling old ghost was laid in the Eed 
Sea, and his rambhng portrait mth him. He was in a perfect 
fever to depart. Two or three days elapsed before any oppor- 
tunity presented for retmiiing dowQ the river. They were ages 
to Dolph, notwithstanding that he Av^as basking in the smiles of 



J^04 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 

the pretty Marie, and daily getting more and more enamoured. 

At length the very sloop from which he had been knocked 
overboard, prepared to make sail. Dolph made an awkward 
apology to his host for liis sudden departure. Antony Vander 
Heyden was sorely astonished. He had concerted half-a-dozen 
excursions into the wilderness; and his Indians were actually 
preparing for a grand expedition to one of the lakes. He took 
Dolph aside, and exerted his eloquence to get him to abandon 
all thoughts of business, and to remain with him — but in vain ; 
and he at length gave up the attempt, observing, "that it was 
a thousand pities so fine a young man should throw himself 
away." Heer Antony, however, gave him a hearty shake by 
the hand at parting, with a favourite fowling-piece, and an 
invitation to come to his house whenever he revisited Albany, 
The pretty little Marie said nothing; but as he gave her a fare- 
well kiss, her dimpled cheek turned pale, and a tear stood in 
her eye. 

Dolph sprang hghtly on board of the vessel. They hoisted 
sail; the vdnd was fair; they soon lost sight of Albany, and 
its green hills, and embowered islands. They were waited 
gayly past the Kaatskill mountains, whose fairy heights were 
bright and cloudless. They passed prosperously through the 
highlands, without any molestation from the Dunderberg 
goblin and his crew; they swept on across Haverstraw Bay, 
and by Croton Point, and through the Tappaan Zee, and 
under the Palisadoes, until, in the afternoon of the third day, 
they saw the promontory of Hoboken, hanging like a cloud in 
the air ; and, shortly after, the roofs of the Manhattoes rising 
out of the water. 

Dolph's first care was to repair to his mother's house ; for he 
was continually goaded hj the idea of the uneasiness she must 
experience on his accomit. He was puzzling his brains, as he 
went along, to think how he should account for his absence, 
^vithout betraying the secrets of the haunted house. In the 
midst of these cogitations, he entered the street in which his 
mother's house was situated, when he was thunderstruck at 
beholding it a heap of ruins. 

There had evidently been a great fire, which had destroyed 
several large houses, and the humble dwelling of poor Dame 
Heyhger had been involved in the conflagration. The walls 
v/ere not so completely destroyed but that Dolph could distin- 
guish some traces of the scene of his childhood. The fii^e-piace, 
about which he had often played, stiU remained, ornamented 



THE STORM 8Uir. 305 

with Dutch tiles, illustrating passages in Bible history, on 
which he had many a time gazed with admiration. Among 
the rubbish lay the wreck of the good dame's elbow-chair, from 
which she had given him so many a wholesome precept ; and 
hard by it was the family Bible, with brass clasps ; now, alas ! 
reduced almost to a cinder. 

For a moment Dolph was overcome by this dismal sight, for 
lie was seized with the fear that his mother had perished in the 
flames. He was reheved, however, from this horrible appre- 
hension, by one of the neighbours who happened to come by, 
and who informed him that liis mother was yet ahve. 

The good woman had, indeed, lost every thing by this un- 
looked-for calamity ; for the populace had been so intent upon 
saving the fine furniture of her rich neighbours, that the little 
tenement, and the little all of poor Dame Heyliger, had been 
suffered to consume without interruption ; nay, had it not been 
for the gallant assistance of her old crony, Peter de Groodt, the 
worthy dame and her cat might liave shared the fate of their 
habitation. 

As it was, she had been overcome with fright and afllLction, 
and lay ill in body, and sick at heart. The pubhc, however, 
had showed her its wonted kindness. The furniture of her rich 
neighbom'S being, as far as possible, rescued from the flames ; 
themselves duly and ceremoniously visited and condoled with 
on the injury of their property, and their ladies commiserated 
on the agitation of their nerves ; the public, at leng*th, began to 
recollect something about poor Dame Heyliger. She forthwith 
became again a subject of universal sympathy; every body 
pitied more than ever ; and if pity could but have been coined 
into cash — good Lord ! how rich she would have been ! 

It was now determined, in good earnest, that something 
ought to be done for her without delay. The Dominie, there- 
fore, put up prayer^ for her on Sunday, in wliich all the con- 
gregation joined most heartily. Even Cobus Groesbeck, the 
alderman, and Mynheer Milledollar, the great Dutch merchant, 
stood up in their pews, and did not spare their voices on the 
occasion ; and it was thought the prayers of such great men 
could not but have their due weight. Doctor Knipperhausen, 
too, visited her professionally, and gave her abundance of ad- 
vice gratis, and was universally lauded for his charity. As to 
her old friend, Peter de Groodt, he was a poor man, whose 
pity, and prayers, and advice could be of but little avail, so ho 
gave her all that was in his power— he gave her shelter. 



306 BBACEBBIDGE BALL. 

To the humble dwelHng of Peter de Groodt, then, did Dolph 
turn his steps. On his way thither, he recalled all the tender- 
ness and kindness of his simple-hearted parent, her indulgence 
of his errors, her blindness to his faults; and then he be- 
thought himself of his own idle, harum-scarum life. " IVe 
been a sad scape-grace," said Dolph, shaking his head sorrow- 
fully. "I've been a complete sink-pocket, that's the truth of 
it! — But," added he, briskly, and clasping his hands, " only let 
her live. — only let her live — and I'll show myself indeed a son !" 

As Dolph approached the house, he met Peter de Groodt 
coming out of it. The old man started back a^ghast, doubting 
whether it was not a ghost that stood before him. It bemg 
bright daylight, however, Peter soon plucked up heart, satis- 
fied that no ghost dare show his face in such clear sunsliine. 
Dolph now learned from the worthy sexton the consternation 
and iiimour to which his mysterious disappearance had given 
rise. It had been imiversally believed that he had been 
spirited away by those hobgobhn gentry that infested the 
haunted house ; and old Abraham Vandozer, who lived by the 
great button-wood trees, at the three-mile stone, affirmed, that 
he had heard a terrible noise in the air, as he was gomg home 
late at night, which seemed just as if a flight of wild geese were 
overhead, passing off towards the northward. The haunted 
house was, in consequence, looked upon with ten times more 
awe than ever ; nobody would venture to pass a night in it for 
the world, and even the doctor had ceased to make his exx)edi- 
tions to it in the day-tmie. 

It requu-ed some preparation before Dolph's retm^n couJd be 
made known to his mother, the poor soul having bewailed him 
as lost ; and her spirits having been sorely broken down by a 
number of comforters, who daily cheered her with stories of 
ghosts, and of people carried away by the devil. He fomid 
her confined to her bed, with the other member of the Iiey- 
Uger family, the good dame's cat, purring beside her, but sadly 
singed, and utterly despoiled of those whiskers which were the 
glory of her physiognomy. The poor woman threw her arms 
about Dolph's neck: "My boy! my boy! art thou still alive?" 
For a time she seemed to have forgotten all her losses and 
troubles, in her joy at his retirrn. Even the sage grimalkin 
showed indubitable signs of jo^r, at the return of the youngster. 
She saw, perha.ps, that they were a forlorn and undone family, 
and felt a touch of that kindliness which fellow-sufferers only 
know. But, in truth, cats are a slandered people ; they have 



THE STORM-SJllP. 30"; 

more affection in them than the world commonly gives them 
credit for. 

The good dame's eyes glistened as she saw one being, at 
least, beside herself, rejoiced at her son's return. " Tib knows 
thee ! poor dumb beast !" said she, smoothing down the mot- 
tled coat of her favourite; then recollecting herself, with a 
melancholy shake of the head, "Ah, my poor Dolx^h!" ex- 
claimed she, "thy mother can help thee no longer! She can 
no longer help herself ! What will become of thee, my poor 
boy!" 

" Mother," said Dolph, " don't talk in that strain; I've been 
too long a charge upon you ; it's now my part to take care of 
you in yoiu^ old days. Come ! be of good heart ! you, and I, 
and Tib, will all see better days. I'm here, you see, young, 
and sound, and hearty ; then don't let us despair ; I dare say 
things will all, some how or other, turn out for the best." 

¥7hile this scene was going on with the Heyliger family, the 
news was carried to Doctor Knipperhausen, of the safe return 
of his disciple. The little doctor scarcely knew whether to re- 
joice or be sorry at the tidings. He was happy at having the 
foul reports which had prevailed concerning his country man- 
sion thus disproved ; but he grieved at having his disciple, of 
v7hom he had supposed himself fairly disencum'oered, thus 
drifting back, a heavy charge upon his hands. Wliile he was 
balancing between these two feelings, he v^as determined by 
the counsels of Frau llsy, who advised him to take advantage 
of the truant absence of the youngster, and shut the door upon 
liim for ever. 

At the hour of bed-time, therefore, when it was supposed the 
recreant disciple would seek his old quarters, every thing was 
prepared for liis reception. Doiph, having talked his mother 
into a state of tranquillity, sought the m.ansion of his quondam 
master, and raised the knocker with a faltering hand. Scarce- 
ly, however, had it given a dubious rap, when the doctor's 
head, in a red night-cap, popped out cf one window, and the 
housekeeper's, in a white night-cap, cut of another. He was 
now greeted v;ith a tremendous volley of hard names and hard 
language, mingled with invaluable pieces of advice, such as are 
seldom ventured to be given excepting to a friend in distress, 
or a culprit at tlie bar. In a few moments, not a windov/ in 
the street but had its particular night-cap, listening to tlie 
shrill treble of Frau llsy, and the guttural croaking of Dr. 
Knipperhausen ; and the wprd went from windovr to window, 



308 BEAGEBRIDGE HALL. 

" Ah! here's Dolph Heyliger come back, and at his old pranks 
again." In short, poor Dolph found he was hkely to get 
nothing from the doctor but good advice — a commodity so 
abundant as even to be thrown out of the window ; so he was 
fain to beat a retreat, and take up his quarters for the night 
imder the lowly roof of honest Peter de Groodt. 

The next morning, bright and early, Dolph was at the 
haunted house. Every thing looked just as he had left it. 
The fields were grass-grown and matted, and it appeared as if 
nobody had traversed them since his departure. With palpi- 
tating heart, he hastened to the well. He looked dovv^n into it, 
and saw that it was of great depth, with water at the bottom. 
He had provided himself with a strong line, such as the fish- 
ermen use on the banks of Newfoundland. At the end was a 
heavy plummet and a large fish-hook. With this he began to 
sound the bottom of the well, and to angle about in the water. 
He found that the water was of some depth ; there appeared 
also to be much rubbish, stones from the top having fallen in. 
Several times his hook got entangled, and he came near break- 
ing his hue. Now and then, too, he hauled up mere trash, 
such as the skull of a horse, an iron hoop, and a shattered 
h^on-bound bucket. He had now been several hours employed 
without finding any thing to repay his trouble, or to encourage 
him to proceed. He began to think hunself a great fool, to be 
thus decoyed into a wild-goose-chase by mere dreams, and 
was on the point of throAving line and all into the well, and 
giving up all further angling. 

" One more cast of the Jine," said he, " and that shall be the 
last." As he sounded, he felt the plummet slip, as it Y^ere, 
through the interstices of loose stones ; and as he drew back 
the line, he felt that the hook had taken hold of something 
heavy. He had to manage his line v\^ith great caution, lest it 
should be broken by the strain upon it. By degrees, the rub- 
bish that lay upon the article which he had hooked gave way ; 
he drew it to the surface gI the water, and what was his rap- 
ture at seeing something like silver glittering at the end of his 
line ! Almost breathless with anxiety, he drew* it up to the 
mouth of the well, surprised at its great vveight, and fearing 
every instant that his hook would slip from its hold, and his 
prize tmnble again to the bottom. At length he landed it safe 
beside the well. It was a great silver porringer, of an ancient 
form, riciily embossed, and with armorial bearings, similar to 
those over his mother's mantel-piece, engraved on its side. 



THE STOmf-SlIlP, 309 

The lid was fastened down by several tmsts of wire ; Dolph 
loosened them with a trembling hand, and on lifting the lid, 
behold! the vessel was filled with broad golden pieces, of a 
coinage which he liad never scon before ! It was evident he 
had lit on the place where Kilhan Vander Spiegel had con- 
cealed his treasure. 

Fearful of being seen by some straggler, he cautiously retired, 
and buried his pot of money in a secret i:)lace. He now spread 
terrible stories about the haunted house, and deterred every 
one from approaching it, while he made frequent visits to it on 
Suormy days, when no one was stirring in the neighbouring 
fields; though, to tell the truth, he did not care to venture 
there in the dark. For once in his life he was diligent and 
industrious, and followed up his new trade of angling with 
such perseverance and success, that in a little vv'hile he had 
hooked up wealth enough to make him, in those moderate days, 
a rich burgher for life. 

It v/ould be tedious to detail minutely the rest of this story: 
— ^to teU how he gradually managed to bring his property into 
use without exciting surpise and inquiry — how he satisfied all 
scruples with regard to retaining the property, and at the same 
time gratified his own feelings, by marrying the pretty Marie 
Vander Heyden — and how he and Ileer Antony had many a 
mei-ry and roving expedition together. 

I must not omit to say, however, that Dolph took his mother 
home to live vriih. him, and cherished her in her old days. The 
good dame, too, had the satisfaction of no longer hearing her 
son made the theme of censure ; on the contrary, he grew daily 
in pubhc esteem ; every body spoke well of him. and his wines, 
and the lordliest burgomaster was never known to decline his 
invitation to dinner. Dolph often related, at liis own table, 
the wicked pranks which had once been the abhorrence of the 
town ; but they were now considered excellent jokes, and the 
gravest dignitary was fain to hold his sides when listening to 
them. No one was more struck with Dolph's increasing merit, 
than his old master the doctor ; and so forgiving was Dolph, tliat 
ho actually employed the doctor as his family physician, only 
taking care that his prescriptions should be always thrown out 
of the window. His mother had often her junto of old cronies, 
to take a snug cup of tea vdth her in her comfortable little 
parlour; and Peter de Groodt, as he sat by the fire-side, with 
one of her grandchildren on his knee, would many a time con- 
gratulate her upon her son turning out so gi^eat a man ; upon 



310 BRACEBIUDGE IT ALL. 

which the good old soul would wag her head with exultation, 
and exclaim, "Ah, neighbour, neighbour! did I not say that 
Dolph would one day or other hold up his head with the best of 
them?" 

Thus did Dolph Heyhger go on, cheerily and prosperously, 
growing merrier as he grew older and wiser, and completely 
falsifying the old proverb about money got over the devil's 
back ; for he made good use of his wealth, and became a distin- 
guished citizen, and a valuable member of the coinmunity. He 
was a great promoter of pubhc institutions, such as beef -steak 
societies and catch-clubs. He presided at all public dinners, 
and was the first that introduced turtle from the West Indies. 
He improved the breed of race-horses and game-cocks, and was 
so great a patron of modest merit, that any one who could sing 
a good song, or teil a good story, was sure to find a place at his 
table. 

He was a member, too, of the corporation, made several laws 
for the protection of game and oysters, and bequeathed to the 
board a, large silver punch-bowl, made out of the identical 
porringer before mentioned, and which is in the possession of 
the corporation to this very day. 

Finally, he died, in a florid old age, of an apoplexy, at a cor- 
poration feast, and was buried with great honours in the yard 
of the little Dutch church in Garden-street, where his tomb- 
stone may still be seen, ivith a modest epitaph in Dutch, by his 
friend Mynheer Justus Benson, an ancient and excellent poet of 
the province. 

The foregoing tale rests on better authority than most tales 
of the kind, as I have it at second-hand from the lips of Dolph 
Heyhger himself. He never related it till towards the latter 
part of his hfe, and then in great confidence, (for he was very 
discreet,) to a few of his pa^rticular cronies at Ms own table 
over a supernumerary bowl of punch ; and, strange as the hob- 
goblin parts of the story may seem, there never was a single 
doubt expressed on the subject by any of his guests. It may 
not be amiss, before concluding, to observe that, in addition to 
his other accomplishments, Dolph Heyliger was noted for being 
the ablest di-awer of the long-bow in the whole province. 



THE WEDDING. 311 



THE WEDDING. 

No more. no. more, much honour aj'e betide 

The lofty bridegroom and the lovely bride; 

That all of their succeeding days may say, 

Each day appears like to a wedding-day. — Braithwaite. 

Notwithstanding the doubts and demurs of Lady Lillycraft, 
and all the grave objections that were conjured up against the 
month of May, yet the wedding has at length happily taken 
place. It was celebrated at the village church, in presence of a 
numerous company of relatives and friends, and many of the 
tenantry. The Squire must needs have something of the old 
ceremonies observed on the occasion; so, at the gate of the 
church-yard, several little girls of the village, dressed in white, 
were in readiness with baskets of flowers, which they strewed 
before the bride ; and the butler bore before her the bride-cup, 
p. great silver embossed bowl, one of the family relics from the 
days of the hard drinkers. This was filled with rich wine, and 
decorated with a branch of rosemary, tied -with gay ribands, 
according to ancient custom. 

"Happy is the bride that the sun shines on," says the old 
proverb; and it was as sunny and auspicious a morning as 
heart could wish. The bride looked uncommonly beautiful; 
but, in fact, what woman does not look interesting on her 
wedding-day? I know no sight more charming and touching 
than that of a young and timid bride, in her robes of margin wliite, 
led up trembling to the altar. When I thus behold a lovely 
giii, in the tenderness of her years, forsaking the house of her 
fathers and the home of her childhood ; and, with the imphcit 
confiding, and the sweet self-abandonment, which belong to 
woman, giving up all the vv^o^ld for the man of Iier choice : 
when I hear her, in the good old language of the ritual, yielding 
herself to him " for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in 
sickness and in health, to love, honour and obey, till death us do 
part," it brings to my mind the beautiful and affecting self- 
devotion of Ruth: "Whither thou goest I will go, andwhero 
thou lodgest I will lodge : thy people shall be my people, and 
thy God my God." 

The fair Juha was supported on the tiying occasion by Lady 
Lillycraft, whose heart was overflowing with its wonted S3rm- 
pathy in aU matters of love and matrimony. As the brido 
approached the altar, her face would be one moment covered 



313 BRAGEhRlDGE HALL. 

with blushes, and the next deadly pale ; and she seemed almost 
ready to shrink from sight among her female companions. 

I do not know what it is that makes every one serious, and, 
as it were, aw^e-struck, at a marriage ceremony — which is gen- 
erally considered as an occasion of festivity and rejoicing. As 
the ceremony was performing, I observed many a rosy face 
among the country girls turn pale, and I did not see a smile 
throughout the church. The young ladies from the Hall were 
almost as much frightened as if it had been their own case, 
and stole many a look of sympathy at their trembhng com- 
panion. A tear stood in the eye of the sensitive Lady Lilly- 
craft ; and as to Phoebe Wnkins, who was present, she abso- 
lutely wept and sobbed aloud ; but it is hard to tell, half the 
time, what these fond foohsh creatures are crying about. 

The captain, too, though naturally gay and unconcerned, 
was much agitated on the occasion ; and, in attempting to put 
the ring upon the bride's finger, dropped it on the floor; 
which Lady LUlycraft has since assured me is a very lucky 
omen. Even Master Simon had lost his usual vivacity, and 
had assumed a most whimsically solemn face, wliich he is apt 
to do on all occasions of ceremony. He had much whispering 
with the parson and parish-clerk, for he is always a busy per- 
sonage in the scene, and he echoed the clerk's amen with a 
solemnity and devotion that edified the whole assemblage. 

The moment, however, that the ceremony was over, the 
transition was magical. The bride-cup was passed round, 
according to ancient usage, for the company to drink to a 
happy union ; every one's feelings seemed to break forth from 
restraint. Master Simon had a v/orld of bachelor pleasantries 
to utter; and as to the gallant general, he bowed and cooed 
about the dulcet Lady Lillycraft, like a mighty cock-pigeon 
about his dame. 

The villagers gathered in the church-yard, to cheer the happy 
couple as they left the church ; and the musical tailor had mar- 
shalled his band, and set up a hideous discord, as the blushing 
and smiling bride passed through a lane of honest peasantry to 
her carriage. The children shouted, and threw up their hats ; 
the bells rung a merry peal, that set all the crows and rooks 
flying and cawing about the air, and threatened to bring down 
the battlements of the old tower ; and there was a continual 
popping off of rusty fire-locks from every part of the neigh- 
bourhood. 

The prodigal son distinguiBlied himself on the occasion, hav- 



TllK Wb'mUAG. 313 

ing hoisted a flag on the top of the school-house, and kept the 
village in a hubbub from sunrise, with the sound of drum and 
fife and pan dean pipe; in which species of music several of his 
scholars are making wonderful proficiency. In his great zeal, 
however, he had nearly done misclnef ; for on returning from 
church, the horses of the bride's carriage took fright from the 
discharge of a row of old gun-barrels, which he had mounted 
as a park of artillery in front of the school-house, to give the 
captain a military salute as he passed. 

The day passed off with great rustic rejoicing. Tables were 
spread under the trees in the park, where all the peasantry of 
the neighbourhood were regaled with roast-beef and plum- 
pudding and oceans of ale. Ready-Money Jack presided at 
one of the tables, and became so full of good cheer, as to un- 
bend from his usual gravity, to sing a song out of all tune, and 
give two or three shouts of laughter, that ahnost electrified his 
neighbours, like so many peals of thunder. The schoohnaster 
and the apothecary vied with each other in making speeches 
over theii' hquor ; and there were occasional glees and musical 
performances by the village band, that must have frightened 
every faun and dryad from the park. Even old Christy, who 
had got on a new dress from top to toe, and shone in all the 
splendour of bright leather breeches and an enormous wedding 
favour in his cap, forgot his usual crustiness, became inspired 
by wine and v/assel, and absolutely danced a hornpipe on one 
of the tables, with all the grace and agility of a manikin hung 
upon wires. 

Equal gayety reigned within doors, where a large party of 
friends were entertained. Every one laughed at his own 
pleasantry, without attending to that of his neighbours. 
Loads of bride-cake were distributed. The young ladies were 
all busy in passing morsels of it through the wedding-ring to 
dream on, and I myself assisted a few little boarding-school 
girls in putting up a quantity for their companions, which I 
have no doubt will set all the little heads in the school gadding, 
far a week at least. 

After dinner, all the company, great and small, gentle and 
simple, abandoned themselves to the dance: not the modern 
quadrille, with its graceful gi^avity, but the merry, social, old 
country-dance ; the true dance, as the Squire says, for a wed- 
ding occasion, as it sets all the world jigging in couples, hand 
in hand, and makes every eye and every heart dance merrily 
to the music. According to frank old usage, the gentlefolks of 



314 BHAOEBRIDGE BALL. 

the Hall mingled for a time in the dance of the peasantry, who 
had a great tent erected for a ball-room; and I thiiik I never 
saw lilaster Simon more in his element, than when figuring 
about among his rustic admirers, as master of the ceremonies ; 
and, Y/ith a mingled air of prol^ection and gallantry, leading 
out the quondam Queen of May, aU blushing at the signal 
honour conferred upon her. 

In the evening the whole village was illuminated, excepting 
the house of the radical, who has not shown his face during 
the rejoicings. There was a display of fire-works at the 
school-house, got up by the prodigal son, which had well-nigh 
set fire to the building. The Squire is so much pleased with 
the extraordinary services of this last mentioned worthy, that 
he talks of enrolling him in his list of valuable retainers, and 
promoting him to some important post on the estate; per- 
adventure to be falconer, if the hawks can ever be brought 
into proper training. 

There is a well-known old proverb, that says "one wedding 
makes many,"— or something to the same purpose; and I 
should not be surprised if it holds good in the present instance. 
I have seen several flirtations among the young people, that 
have been brought together on this occasion ; and a great deal 
of strolling about in pairs, among the retired Tvalks and blos- 
soming shrubberies of the old garden : and if groves were really 
given to whispering, as poets would fain make us believe, 
Heaven knows what love tales the grave-looking old trees 
about this venerable country-seat might blab to the world. 

The general, too, has waxed very zealous in his devotions 
within the last few days, as the time of her ladyship's depar- 
ture approaches. I observed him casting many a tender look 
at her during the wedding dinner, while the courses were 
changing; though he was always hable to be interrupted in 
his adoration by the appearance of any new delicacy. The 
general, in fact, has arrived at that tune of life when the heart 
and the stomach maintain a kind of balance of power, and 
when a man is apt to be perplexed in his affections between a 
fine woman and a truffled turkey. Her ladyship was certainly 
rivalled, through the whole of the first course, by a dish of 
stewed carp ; and there was one glance, which was evidently 
intended to be a point-blank shot at her heart, and could 
scarcely have failed to eliect a practicable breach, had it not 
unluckily been directed away to a tempting breast of lamb, in 
which it immediately produced a formidable incision. 



7'i/A' \VJt:iJDJ.\G. 81f, 

Thus did this faithless general go on, c(Xiuotting during the 
whole dinner, and committing an infidelity with every new 
dish; until, in the end, he was so overpowered by the attentions 
he had paid to fish, llesh, and fowl ; to pastry, jelly, cream, and 
blanc-mange, that he seemed to sink v/itliin himself: his eyes 
swam beneath their lids, and their fire was so much slackened, 
that he could no longer discharge a single glance that would 
reach across the taHQ. Upon the whole, I fear the general ate 
himseK into as much disgrace, at this memoi^able dinner, as I 
have seen him sleep himself into on a former occasion. 

I am told, moreover, that young Jack Tibbetswas so touched 
by the wedding ceremony, at which he was present, and so 
captivated by the sensibility of poor Phoebe Wilkins, who cer- 
tainly looked all the better for her tears, that he had a recon- 
ciliation with her that very day, after dinner, in one of the 
groves of the park, and dmoed with her in the evening; to the 
complete confusion of all DameTibbefcs' domestic politics. I met 
them walking together in the park, shortly after the reconcili- 
ation must have taken i^lace. Young Jack carried himself 
gayly and manfully ; but Plioebe hung her head, blushing, as I 
approached. However, just as she passed me, and dropped a 
curtsy, I caught a shy gleam of her eye from under her bon- 
net ; but it wa^ iminediately cast down again. I saw enough 
in that single gleam, and in the involuntary smile that dimpled 
about her rosy hps, to feel satisfied that the little gipsy's heart 
was happy again. 

What is more, Lady Lillycraft, with her usual benevolence 
and zeal in all matters of this tender nature, on hearing of the 
recoiiciliation of the lovers, undertook the critical task of 
breaking the matter to Ready-]\Ioney Jack. She thought there 
was no time like the present, and attacked the sturdy old yeo- 
man that very evening in the pai'k, while liis heart was yet 
lifted up with the Squire's good cheer. Jack was a little sur- 
prised at being drawn aside by her ladyship, but was not to be 
Hurried by such an honour: he was still more surprised by 
the nature of her communication, and by this first intelligence 
of an affair which had been passing under his eye. He^listened, 
however, with his usual gravity, as her ladyship representee 
the advantages of the match, the good qualities of the girl, anc 
the distress which she had lately suffered: at length his ey( 
began to kindle, and his hand to play -with the head of liia^ 
cudgel. Lady Lillycraft saw that something in the narrative 
Iiad gone v/rong, and hastened to mollify his rising ire by reitcr- 



316 BnACEBlilBGE HALL. 

ating the soft-hearted Phoebe's merit and fidehty, and her 
great uiiliappiness ; when old Read^^ -Money suddenly inter- 
rupted her by exclaiming, that if Jack did not marry the 
wench, he'd break every bone in his body ! The match, there- 
fore, is considered a settled thing: Dame Tibbets and the house- 
keeper have made friends, and dranii tea together ; and Phoebe 
has again recovered her good looks and good spirits, and is 
carolling from morning till night like a lark. 

But the most whhnsicai caprice of Cupid is one that I should 
be almost afraid to mention, did I not knoY\r that I was writing 
for readers well experienced in the waywardness of this most 
mischievous deity. The morning after the weddmg, therefore, 
while Lady Lillycraft was making preparations for her depar- 
ture, an audience was requested by her inunaculate hand-maid, 
Mrs. Hannah, who, with much prhnming of the mouth, and 
many maidenly hesitations, requested leave to stay behind, and 
that Lady Lillycraft would supply her place with some other 
servant. Her ladyship was astonished: "What! Hamiaii 
going to quit her, that hp.d lived with her so long!" 

' ' Why, one could not help it ; one must settle m life some 
time or other. " 

The good lady was still lost in amazement ; at length, the 
secret vras gasped from the dry lips of the maiden gentlewoman : 
" She had been some time thinking of changing her condi- 
tion, and at length had given her vv^ord, last evening, to ilr. 
Chxisty, the huntsman. 

How, or when, or vrhere this singular courtship had been 
carried on, I have not been able to learn ; nor how she has been 
able, vvdth the vinegar of her disposition, to soften the stony 
heftrt of old Nimrod : so, hoT\^ever, it is, and it has astonished 
every one. With all her ladyship's love of match-making, tliis 
last fume of Hjanen's torch hr.-s been too nauch for her. She 
has endeavoured to reason with Mrs. Hanncih, but all in vain; 
her mind was made up, and she grew tart on the least contra- 
diction. Lady Lillycraft apx)li'^d to the Squire for his interfer- 
ence. "She did not know what she should do without Mi's. 
Hannah, she had been used to have lier about her so long a 
time." 

The Squire, on the contrary, rejoiced in the match, as reliev- 
ing the good 1 '.a3- from a kind of toilet-tyrant, under whose 
sway she had suffered for years. Instead of thwarting the 
affair, therefore, he has given it his full countenance; and 
declares that he will set up the young couple in one of the beat 



TUt: WEDDING. 317 

cottages on his estate. The approbation of the Squire has been 
followed by that of the whole household ; they all declare, that 
if ever matches are really made in heaven, this must have been ; 
for that old Christy and Mrs. Hannah were as evidently formed 
to be linked together, as ever were pepper-box and vinegar- 
cruet. 

As soon as this matter was arranged, Lady Lilly craft took 
her leave of the family at the Hall ; taking with her the captain 
and his blushing bride, who are to pass the honeymoon w^ith 
her. Master Simon accompanied them on horseback, and 
indeed means to ride on ahead to make preparations. The gen- 
eral, who was fishing in vain for an invitation to her seat, 
handed her ladyship into the carriage with a heavy sigh ; upon 
which his bosom friend, Master Simon, who was just mounting 
his horse, gave me a kno^ving wink, made an abominably wry 
face, and, leaning from liis saddle, whispered loudly in my ear, 
"It won't do !" Then, putting spurs to his horse, away he can- 
tered off. The general stood for some tune waving his hat 
after the carriage as it rolled do^vn the avenue, until he was 
seized with a fit of sneezing, from exposing his head to the cool 
breeze. I observed that he returned rather thoughtfully to the 
house ; whisthng sof th" to himself, with his hands behind his 
back, and an exceedingly dubious air. 

The company have now almost all taken their departure ; I 
have determined to do the same to-morrow morning; and I 
hope my reader may not think that I have already K-ngered too 
long at the Hall I have oeen tempted to do so, however, 
because I thought I had lit upon one of the retired places where 
there are yet some traces to be met with of old Enghsh character. 
A little wliile hence, and all thesft will probably have passed 
away. Keady-]\Ioney Jack wih sleep with his fathers : the good 
Squirp, and all his peculiarities, will be buried in the neighbour- 
ing church. The old Hall will be modernized h^o a fashionable 
country-seat, or, peradventure, a manufactory. The park will 
be cut up into petty farms and kitchen-gardens. A daily coach 
will run through the village; it ^vill become, like all other 
commonplace villages, thronged with coachmen, post-boys, 
tipplers, and politicians : and Christmas, i\Iay-day, and all the 
other hearty merry-makings of the " good old times," will be 
forgotten. 



318 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 



THE AUTHOK'S FAREWELL. 

And so without more circumstance at all, 

I hold it fit that we shake hands and ^axt.— Hamlet, 

Having taken leave of the Hall and its inmates, and bronglit 
che history of my visit to something like a close, there seems 
to remain nothing further than to make my bow, and exit. It 
is my foible, however, to get on snch companionable teiTns 
with my reader in the course of a work, that it really costs me 
some pain to part with him ; and I am apt to keep him by the 
hand, and ha\^e a few farewell words at the end of my last 
volume. 

When I cast an eye back upon the work I am just conclud- 
ing, I cannot but be sensible how full it must 6e of erj-ors and 
imperfections : indeed, how should it be otherwise, writing as I 
do about subjects and scenes with v/hich, as a stranger, I am 
but partially accjuainted? Many will doubtless find cause to 
smile at very obvious blunders which I may have made ; and 
many may, perhaps, be offended at what they may conceive 
prejudiced representations. Some will think I might have said 
much more on such subjects as may suit their peculiar tastes ; 
whilst others will think I had done wiser to have left those sub- 
jects entirely alone. 

It will probably be said, too, by some, that I view England 
with a partial eye. Perhaps I do ; for I can never forget that 
it is my "father land." And yet, the circimistances under 
wliich I have viewed it have by no means been such as were 
calculated to produce favourable imj)ressions. For the greater 
part of the time that I have resided in it, I have hved almost 
unknowing and unkno^vn ; seeking no favours, and receiving 
none: " a stranger and a sojourner in the land," and subject 
to aU the chills and neglects that are the common lot of the 
stranger. 

When I consider these circumstances, and recollect how often 
I have taken up my pen, with a mind ill at ease, and spirits 
much dejected p^nd cast down, I cannot but think I was not 
Hkeiy to err on the favourable side of the picture. The opin- 
ions I have given of Enghsh character have been the result of 
much quiet, dispassionate, and varied observation. It is a 
character not to be hastily studied, for it always puts on a re- 
pulsive and ungracious aspect to a stranger. Let those, then. 



277 A' AUTIWIVS FAREWELL. ::]!!> 

who condemn my representations as too favourable, observe 
this people as closely and d.ohberately as I have done, and tbey 
will, probably, change their opinion. Of one thing, at any 
rate, I am certain, that I have spoken honestly and sincerely, 
from the convictions of my mind, and the dictates of my heart. 
When I first published my former v/ritings, it was with no 
hope of gaining favour in Ep.glish eyes, for I little thought they 
were to become current out of my own country : and had I 
merely sought popularity among my own countrymen, I should 
liave taken a more direct and obvious way, by gratifying 
rather than rebukmg the angry feelings that were then preva- 
lent against England. 

And here let me acknowledge my warm, my thankful feel- 
ings, at the effect produced by one of my trivial lucubrations. 
I allude to the essay in the Sketch-Book, on the subject of the 
literary feuds between England and America. I cannot ex- 
press the heartfelt delight I have experienced, at the unex- 
pected sympathy and approbation with which those remarks 
have been received on both sides of the Atlantic. I speak this 
not from any paltry f eehngs of gratified vanity ; for I attribute 
(he effect to no merit of my pen. The paper in question was 
brief and casual, and the ideas it conveyed were simple and 
obvious. "It was the cause: it was the cause'' alone. There 
Vi^as a predisposition on the part of my readers to be favourably 
affected. Islj countrjinen responded in heart to the filial feel- 
ings I had avowed in their name towards the parent country : 
and there v/as a generous S5^npathy in every English bosom 
towards a solitary individual, lifting up his voice in a strange 
land, to vindicate the injured character of his nation. There 
are some causes so sacred as to carry with them an irresistible 
appeal to every Trlrtuous bosom ; and he needs but little i)ower 
of eloquence, who defends the honour of his wife, his mother, 
or his country. 

I hail, therefore, the success of that brief paper, as showing 
how much good may be done by a kmd word, however feeble, 
when spoken in season — as showing how nmch donnant good- 
fechng actually exists in each country, towai-ds tlie other, 
which only v/ants the slightest spark to kindle it into a genial 
&ame — as showing, in fact, what I have ail along believed and 
asserted, that the two nations would gTow together in esteem 
and amity, if meddling and malignant spirits woidd but throw 
by their mischievous pens, and leave kindred heai'ts to the 
kindly impulses of nature. 



320 BRACEBBIDGE HALL. 

I once more assert, and I assert it with increased conviction 
of its truth, that there exists, among the great majority of my 
countrymen, a favourable feehng toward England. I repeat 
this assertion, because I tliink it a truth that cannot too often 
be reiterated, and because it has met with some contradiction. 
Among aU the liberal and enlightened minds of my country- 
men, among all those whicli eventually give a tone to national 
opinion, there exists a cordial desire to be on terms of courtesy 
and friendship. But at the same time, there exists in those 
very minds a distrust of reciprocal good-will on the part of 
England. They have been rendered morbidly sensitive by the 
attacks made upon their country by the Enghsh press ; and 
their occasional irritability on this subject has been misinter- 
preted into a settled and unnatural hostihty. 

For my part, I consider this jealous sensibility as belonging 
to generous natures. I should look upon my countrymen as 
fallen indeed from that independence of spirit which is their 
bu'th-gift ; as fallen indeed from that pride of character which 
they inlierit from the proud nation from which they sprung, 
could they tamely sit down under the infliction of contumely 
and insult. Indeed, the very mipatience which they show as 
to the misrepresentations of the press, proves their respect for. 
English opinion, and their desu^e for Enghsh amity ; for thero 
is never jealousy where there is not strong regard. 

It is easy to say, that these attacks are all the effusions of 
worthless scribblers, and treated with silent contempt by the 
nation ; but, alas ! the slanders of the scribbler travel abroad, 
and the silent contempt of the nation is only knovfn at home. 
With England, then, it remains, as I have formerly asserted, 
to promote a mut-ual spirit of conciliation ; she has but to hold 
the language of friendship and respect, and she is secure of the 
good- will of every American bosom. 

In expressing these sentiments, I would utter nothing that 
should commit the pro|)er spirit of my countrymen. We seek 
no boon at England's hands: we ask nothing as a favour. 
Her friendship is not necessary, nor would her hostility be 
dangerous to our well-being. We ask nothing from abroad 
that we cannot reciprocate. But with respect to England, we 
have a warm feeling of the heart, the glow of consanguinity 
that stni lingers in our blood. Interest apart^past differences 
forgotten — ^we extend the hand of old relationship. We merely 
ask, do not estrange us from you ; do not destroy the ancient 
tie of blood ; do not let scoffers and slanderers drive a kindred 



THE AUTHORS FAREWELL. 321 

nation from your side ; we would fain be friends ; do not com- 
pel us to be enemies. 

There needs no better rallying-ground for international 
amity, than that furnished by an eminent English writer: 
"There is," say she, "a sacred bond between us of blood and of 
language, which no circumstances can break. Oxu* hterature 
must always be theirs; and though their laws are no longer 
the same as ours, v/e have the same Bible, and we address our 
common Father in the same prayer. Nations are too ready to 
admit that they have natural enemies; why should they be 
less v/illing to beheve that they have natural friends?"* 

To the magnanimous spirits of both countries must we trust 
to carry such a natural alliance of affection into full effect. To 
pens more powerful than mine, I leave the noble task of pro- 
moting the cause of national amity. To the inteUigent and en- 
lightened of my own country, I addi^ess my parting voice, 
entreating them to show themselves superior to the petty 
pitacks of the ignorant and the wortliless, and still to look with 
dispassionate and philosophic eye to the moral character of 
England, as the intellectual source of our rising greatness; 
while I appeal to every generous-minded Enghshman from the 
slanders v/hich disgrace the press, insult the undcrstandmg, 
and belie the magnanimity of his country : and I invite liim to 
look to America, as to a kindred nation, worthy of its origin ; 
giving, in the healthy vigour of its growth, the best of com- 
ments on its parent stock; and reflecting, in the dawning 
brightness of its fame, the moral effulgence of British glory. 

I a.m sure that such an appeal will not be made in vain. In- 
deed, I have noticed, for some time past, an essential change in 
English sentiment with regard to America. In parliament, 
that fountain-head of public opinion, there seems to be an 
emulation, on both sides of the house, in holding the language 
of courtesy and friendship. The same spirit is daily becoming 
more and more prevalent in good society. There is a growing 
curiosity concerning my country ; a craving desire for correct 
information, that cannot fail to lead to a favourable under- 
standing. The scofTer, I trust, has had his day; the time of 
the slanderer is gone by ; the ribald jokes, the stale common- 
places, which have so long passed current when America was 



* From an article (said to bp by Robert Sonthey, Esq.") published in tlie Quarterly 
Review. It is to be lamented iliai tliat publication should so often forget the gen- 
erous text here given ! 



022 BBACJiJBiaDQE HALL. 

the theme, are now banished to the ignorant and the vulgar, 
or only perpetuated by the hireling scribblers and traditional 
jesters of the press. The intelligent and high-minded now 
pride themselves upon making America a study. 

But however my feelings may be understood or reciprocated 
on either side of the Atlantic, I utter them, without reserve, for 
I have ever found that to speak frankly is to speak safely. I 
am not so sanguine as to believe that the two nations are ever 
to be bound together by any romantic ties of feeling; but I 
beheve that much may be done towards keeping ahve cor- 
dial sentiments, were every well-disposed mind occasionally to 
throw in a simple word of kindness. If I have, indeed, pro- 
duced any such effect by my writings, it will be a soothing re- 
flection to me, that for once, in the course of a^rather negligent 
life, I have been useful ; that for once, by the casual exercise 
of a pen which has been in general but too unprofltably em- 
ployed, I have awakened a cord of sympathy between the land 
of my fathers and the dear land that gave me birth. 

In the spirit of these sentiments, I now take my farewell of 
the paternal soil. With anxious eye do I behold the clouds of 
doubt and difficulty that are lowering over it, and earnestly do 
I hope that they may all clear up into serene and settled sun- 
shine. In bidding this last adieu, my heart is filled with fond, 
yet melancholy emotions; and still I linger, and still, hke a 
child leaving the venerable abodes of his forefathers, I turn to 
breathe forth a filial benediction : Peace be within thy walls, 
O England I and plentoousness witiiin thy palaces; for my 
brethren and my companions' sake I will now say, Peace be 
within thee 1 



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TOVF' T.'S LIBRARY -C/TAiOGUR. 



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